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SNAPSHOTS


Moments in time:
your hand in mine.
Small and bony, fingers long -
though mine was bigger, yours was so strong.
Not a moment in life where it didn’t belong.
 
Moments in time:
your hand in mine.
From a little girl seeking your brown eyes up there
to the sobs in your lap as you stroked my wet hair.
Some memories frantic, some blissfully lazy.
Our hands stay in focus, while the rest becomes hazy.
 
Moments in time:
your hand in mine.
Our fingers laced and so perfectly spaced.
That feeling – still in me – years haven’t erased.
How you passed me, each time, just a wisp of your grace.
 
Moments in time:
your hand in mine.
We gripped firmly when life brought us reasons to grieve,
as we did when we laughed till we practically peed.
And the very last time, as your soul was set free,
with my head on your chest
while you took your last breath
and my aching hand pleaded for one final squeeze.
 
Moments in time:
their hands now in mine.
Little ones that slide oh so gently in place.
Tiny fingers that fit, but can never replace.
They don’t even know how quickly they’ll grow,
and how fast it can go -
but I do, so I slow
myself down.
I breathe as I tighten my grip.
This precious phase is a passing ship.
I feel their soft skin.
I let their light in,
where it mingles with yours,
still alive in my pores.
And I feel your deep beauty infusing their cores.
 
Moments in time:
your hand in mine.
How I wish,
how I yearn,
how I thirst,
how I pine
for a little black button
labeled, simply,
REWIND.

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