Sticky Hands

I’m lost in a sea of anxiety, worried thoughts tumbling through my mind like turbulent waves. There is so much about this world that stirs fear in my belly. Illness, hatred, violence, war. “Hand! Hand!” Your tiny voice breaks through my thoughts, pulling me to calmer water. You’re holding out your sticky little hand, reaching for mine. I smile and reach back. You wrap your hand around two of my fingers. “Mama hand!” you announce proudly. You proceed to pull on my hand until I’m walking beside you. We walk around the room as if we’re out for a summer stroll. You are learning new words every day, and “hand” is a new one. I can tell you are so proud of yourself. I am so proud of you too. You lead me around the living room three times - with the confident, slightly unsteady swagger of a curious toddler - before you let go of my hand. Then you look up at me with the most loving, trusting smile and the slightest hint of mischief in your eyes. You hug my leg, sticking your chubby, perfect little thumb in your mouth. The hug is fleeting, but it’s everything. You move on to the next thing that catches your eye - a puzzle or a book. But I live in that moment a little longer. That moment is bursting with my hopes for you, with the dreams you will have some day. Maybe you already have dreams. You are already capable of pulling me out of darkness and casting light wherever you go. You may not remember this moment, but I will cherish it. I will hold it in my sticky hand. I will remember it for both of us.