Her Hand

I have read the one thing people late in life miss the most is the human touch.  And one day I may as well.

On Christmas Eve of 2017 I was holding my granddaughter, Adaline.

I looked down and saw her tiny hand now resting in mine…mine now beginning to show the signs of fifty eight years.

A family member with a camera was nearby and I asked them to frame a shot of our hands.

Even as I sat holding Adaline with her hand in mine, I began to see the days to come.

My future…her future…was very present in my mind.

I could see her tiny hand holding an object on her own for the first time…and wondered what that object would be.

I could see her hand tightly gripping her mama and daddy’s hand as she walked toward her school on her first day.

I could see her hand holding the hand of a boy for the first time, not knowing when to let go…not wanting to let go.

I could see her hand wiping away the tears of a friend who had experienced a broken heart.

I could see her hand being given away by her daddy to a man she would spend the rest of her life with, and he taking that same hand in marriage.

I could see her hand one day holding the hand of her husband and of her own children as they prayed for God to watch over them during the night.

And I could see her hand somewhere in the future, once again holding mine…mine then aged, feeble, with only moments of life left in it’s grip…as she said good-bye to me one last time.

A memory.

A photo.

I hold them close.

In my heart.

In my hand.