Holding Hands

I am grateful for hands to hold,
And the love that flows

From one hand to the other. 

My spouse and I still hold hands 

When we walk together

Down the street, 

Across a park,
Or along the water's edge at the beach.

Love oozes from her hand as we reach

out to touch each other.

My grandmother's hands were rough

And tough from years of hard work.
And yet, love flowed softly
Out of her hand

And into mine,

Whenever we walked together.

My cousin’s, Tima's, hand was full 

Of 101 years’ worth of loving kindness, 

Hard work and comforting tenderness.

I loved holding her hand at her last birthday party.

I was in awe

Holding our newborn son's hand

With his tiny fingers

And wrinkly palms
On the day he was born.

I held our newly adopted daughter's 

Six year old hand

As I pulled her ahead of me 

Running down the Seoul city street

Connecting our hearts forever.
"Papa," our second daughter said,

After leaving the Siberian orphanage.
Trust and hope
Ran up and over
All of me
From her little six year old hand

Into mine.

My grandkids hold magic
Of love and glee

That they give to me

When they hold my hand.

Several years ago I asked a young woman

To hold my hand as we walked to a meeting

Beyond a grove of green  pine trees.

When we arrived.

She turned to me 

With liquid filled eyes and said,

"I felt like I was holding my father's hand."

I put my hand on a branch of a tree

And we exchange loving kindness

Between it and me. 

I hold my dog's paw when I pick her up. 

She sighs and wags her tail.

I held my dying son's hand

As he lay in the trauma unit.
I cried and tried
To memorize,

To imprint, 

To hold

The feeling, 

The contours, 

The love
And give him life

Before he was gone. 

I am grateful 

That I as able

To hold his hand

And say goodbye.

I am grateful for hands to hold,
And the love that flows

From one hand to the other.