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Open My Hand



There were many years with a little hand in mine.

Presence. Comfort. Assurance.

These are gifts to my son.


His small hand has matured until it almost matches mine.

When my instinct is to grasp, his altered to create space. The dreaded day came when holding Mom's hand was no longer desired.


It's the bittersweet passing of time called growing up.

It's the parental journey of acceptance and release.


One day, not too long ago, brittle leaves broke under our feet. My boy and I walked side by side. As unexpected as a beam of sunlight on a rainy day, his hand filled mine. No words were spoken but the minutes were savored. A tug and I let him go, memorizing the determined angle of his head as he ran ahead.


This is motherhood.

Nurture. Guidance. Presence.

Then, before the heart is ready, learning to open my hand.


Many things change as the moon waxes and wanes. There is a keen awareness that his hand may never reach for mine again on one of our walks, but it will always be there for his taking.


My son will always have my presence, comfort, and assurance because love isn't stored in my hand - it pours from my heart.


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