I like the way he holds my hand.
Down the hill. Across the street.
Waving to the crossing guard.
In front of the bus line.
Behind the library.
A boy a few years older passes on a bike, but his grasp remains.
In between the trees and up the hill.
“I know how to draw a wooden arrow,” he says. “Oh! How did it feel?” He begins to get upset: “No Mom! Draw! I can draw it.” He’s sensitive about mispronouncing things, and tells the kids at school it’s because he’s Irish. “I know that you said draw, buddy. I thought you meant to draw it back before releasing; at the target range. I didn’t think you meant with pencil and paper.” He laughs and remembers aloud that in one of his books it says ‘Robin drew an arrow.’
We’ve arrived now and he’s the first to say ‘I love you.’ I need to get one of his super good hugs. From way inside the school I see him glance over his shoulder, but he’s happy going forward.
I understand the gentle bond too much to fear the letting go.
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photo: September 2011 / words: November 7, 2011
