Some say
Eyes are the window to the soul
and I (sort of) believe that

But if there were a close second
I think it would be the hands

I have one son 
(and not my youngest)
who will still reach for my hand
any and all times
I have it free, outstretched at my side
An instinct,
almost like blinking, or breathing

I remember holding my mom’s hand
For safety, yes
but so much more

She would squeeze it,
Three times: I. Love. You.

And I would return the message,
Four squeezes: I. Love. You. Too.

Sometimes we’d continue:
I. Love. You. More. Than. You. Love. Me.
Dissolving into giggles
Losing track of the count
but never the message

A signal of connection,
holding another’s hand
Of trust, vulnerability
Hands hold so much power
and utility – 
	to communicate
	to knead
	to dig in
	to tickle
	to raise

The brush of a hand from
another
can feel so intimate,
sending surges through
my entire body

Open in surrender, clenched
tightly into fists
Painted
or adorned with rings

Pudgy and dimpled;
nearly skeletal with knobby
knuckles and paper-thin skin

Another piece of my heart will break
when my son’s self-consciousness,
overrides his instinct
to grab for my hand

but until then
I will hold mine out
and when he grasps it
I will squeeze three times