Tiny Hands

Some memories live forever in the palm of your hand.

Your hands are still soft,
just as they were when you were a baby.

Even now, with dirt tucked beneath your nails,
chipped nail polish on your fingertips,
and traces of the day's adventures
still clinging to your skin.

When you rush to me
and slip your hand into mine,
my heart still skips a beat.

The feeling is different now,
but somehow exactly the same.

I remember when your whole hand
could wrap around a single finger,
when your grip was tiny but determined,
as if letting go was never an option.

Now your hands are bigger
but also still small.
Your stride is faster.
You run ahead of me instead of behind.

Still, every time you reach back for my hand,
time folds in on itself.

For a moment,
I can feel every version of you at once.
The newborn curled against my chest,
the the baby crawling toward me,
the little girl standing here today.

I know these hands won't stay small.

One day they will grow strong enough
to build a life of their own,
to hold someone else's hand,
to open doors I cannot follow through.

It’s as it should be.

But I hope I never forgot the weight of your hand in mine.
The trust tucked into your fingers.
Because long after your hands have grown,
I know I will still remember
how they felt when they were small.

Some part of me will always be reaching back,
trying to hold on to the memory
of your tiny hands.