On a particularly cold day last week, Squints and I went for
a walk. He didn’t bother with gloves. And his baseball hat did little to protect
him from the wind that bit at his ears. He
hunched into himself, balled up his hands and drew them into the sleeves of his
coat. “It’s cold, Mom.”
I took his left hand in my right. Rubbed the back of it with my gloved thumb to
warm him a bit.
And we along walked in silence, hand in hand.
A mail truck approached.
Squints dropped my hand.
Pulled his own back into his sleeve.
The mail truck passed.
Squints poked at my hand with his index finger. Again I took his hand in my own.
A walker approached.
Squints dropped my hand.
The walker passed. Squints
poked my hand.
It continued in this way for the duration of two miles; this
dropping and reuniting of hands depending upon the presence or absence of
people.
Each time Squints dropped my hand, I felt a little sad.
And every time he returned his to mine, I was cheered.
And as we reached home and parted hands for the final time,
I couldn’t help but wonder if that was the last time he and I would walk hand
in hand.
Labels: Boys, Creative non-fiction, Growing up