8Lbs.
Before him, my hands belonged to me—
ten fingers with no reason to be careful,
good for gripping steering wheels, counting money,
and reaching for whatever I wanted next.
Then a nurse folded eight pounds into my arms.
His whole hand closed around one finger,
too small to circle even half of it,
and somehow that unfinished little fist
held more of me than mine ever could.
I remember watching his little chest rise,
a heart-shaped birthmark moving with every breath,
counting each one without knowing I was counting,
afraid even air might mishandle him.
Those hands changed after that.
They learned alarm clocks before sunrise,
time clocks, grocery bags, medicine bottles,
how to stretch one paycheck past Friday,
how to check a fever without waking him.
They learned shoelaces. Bicycle seats.
And even how long to hold on before letting go.
Years later, those tiny fingers
filled the gloves of a United States Marine,
and I stood looking up at the same boy
I once was terrified of dropping.
Funny—
The first day I held my son,
I thought I was carrying him.
I didn't know
he was carrying me into manhood.
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