Chubby little hands

I remember looking down at my small hands as a child. In my mind’s eye I see them now.

They were little; strangely so and rounded. I’d stare at them so long that I lost my understanding of what hands were. They were just flattened flesh with wriggling lengths.

They made no sense.

I longed for when my hands would grow long and slim like my mother’s, to have delicate creases decorating each joint. So feminine. I wanted to adorn them with gold and jewels just as she did.

I wondered why mine seemed so incapable and hers so clever.

I wanted time to hurry, to rush back and meet with me . I was so impatient, I wanted to grow so big that I could choose to be a child. So I could grow into this place, so I could play and make and be without thought.

I wanted to grow and find unconditional love and gain the security and playfulness that would ensue.

As I watched these small hands of mine day in day out, I felt it would never happen.

They’d never be big enough to set me free.

But as I look to these freshly foreign hands; my mother’s hands before my eyes, I am struck with the rapidity in which they grew. It was like I blinked my eyes and there they were.

Fully grown, capable and clever.

I am now grown enough to be a child should I choose, I am old enough to grow up with my children.

I am old enough now to know that there is no longer a need to pursue time as it surrounds us, holds us and suspends us.

I am old enough to take my child’s hand. And study those small clumsy things, old enough now to know what they will become and it swells and hollows my heart all at once; for in those tiny hands I see my past; my future.

And finally I am old enough now to know, that I must grip with both these strong, grown hands to this present with all my love.

To pull against time and to hold tight to today.


In other news ….. “Hello again.”

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