Little Hands

Little hands,
soft and warm,
clasping, gripping, pulling me back,
40 years.

Submerged within a sparkling sea of memories,
spurned on by your tiny raspberry coloured smile,
to linger for another moment.

Little hands,
slowly wrapping their gentle way,
around the fabric of this moment.
A tapestry of colour, embued with your joy.
Sewn into what I am and was,
and will one day be.
Pulling me,
with unbreakable thread,
to be a better man.  

Little sweet clamy hands.
Bringing it all together:
the past; the present; and tomorrow,
tightening in my grip,
to keep me with you.
And gripped more firmly still,
by my desire to never leave your side,
not even for a moment.
And for this piece of time to stay,
nestled,
indelibly,
into the circle of your life.

Give it to me.
Give it all.
I don’t want to leave.
I don’t want to let this moment go.
I don’t want to die.
To see you cry.
To think it.
I don’t want to let it go,
your little hand…