Gone are the silky fingers wrapped around one of mine ...
Gone is the soft palm and tightly clutched fist holding on firmly as you view the wide world ...
Gone is the ability to enclose your tiny hand in my own, like a little bird held safe in it's nest...
Callouses now line the base of every finger, -each one a testament to monkey bars and rope swings, shovels and tree trunks...
Your hand is tougher and yet looser too, - your fingers intertwine with mine, your palm, though still smaller is no longer dwarfed by my own. You grab my hand not for safety or security, but rather just to share.
You are my firstborn, ... my love, ... my friend. You are my baby and my sweetheart and at the same time my challenge and my consternation.
How does a mother let go? And yet how can I begin to hold on to a bird who must fly?
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