I Want To Hold Your Hand

When I was a little kid, I held my mother’s hand all the time, and it was that simple show of affection that made me feel safe and secure. One day, when she dropped me off for my first day of kindergarten, she let go and the sense of abandonment still burns in my memory. We walked into the hallway of the Franklin School and she released me into the hands of Miss Valentine (yes, Miss Valentine, how ironic)  - I screamed like it were the end of the world. My mother turned away and walked away from me – she hesitated for a moment, but she never looked back as the tears poured down my face and my lungs grew tired from overuse. Years later, on our trip to Paris, my mom shared with me that the school told her to not hesitate and to keep walking away and whatever she did, to not turn back. She related how her face was just as stained with tears as was my chubby little face. She said that it was the hardest thing she had to do. When I felt her hand leave mine, I felt my world crumble. 

Perhaps that is why the safest and most loved I feel is when someone reaches for my fingers and curls theirs around mine. Long ago, when I fell in love (yes, I am capable of that), the object of my desire and I watched a stupid chick flick, “How to Make An American Quilt,” and although I cannot tell you anything about the movie, what I remember most is when his hand reached over, brushed my arm and found my fingers. We sat in the dark, his touch as real today to me as it was then, and all I thought was how wonderful this one moment in my life was. When it ended with a screaming match on Castro Street, my heart broken in more pieces than a jumbo jigsaw puzzle, seeing those same hands that held mine push me away cut me to the core. Unlike my mother, he not only did not turn back, he told me exactly where to go.

Although I was hesitant, I tried again, and walking around the happiest place on earth, hand in hand, I couldn’t imagine it any better. But, as you may have guessed, that too came to an unexpected and what seems with me, always dramatic end. Yet, perhaps it’s a credit to my mother, knowing that her love has never left me, that I want to rediscover the simple show of affection she instilled in me so long ago. Years later, as we walked around the streets of Paris, it was my turn to make my mother feel safe. This time, with her arm entwined with mine, it made me happy to be the comfort to her that she’s always been to me.  Perhaps one day, I’ll be that to someone special as they reach for my hand, but I know that even if it’s a long time in coming, I will remember that that feeling does exist. 

And like my mom and I on the streets of Paris, it will make me smile.