There’s a part of my hand that hurts, a patch of skin on the back of my hand, near my thumb.
It’s exactly where my daughter grips my hand when she wants to drag me somewhere.
When you’re four any type of waiting is too much waiting, so she drags me to where she needs me to go.
She tugs me away from the adults I’m speaking to or the dinner I’m making, to the very important matter that she needs me, and only me to attend to.
She pulls my hand, her skin rubs agains mine, my skin stings or almost burns. I smart.
It’s also exactly where she holds my hand firmly in hers when she needs to feel safe, offering me her soft, smooth hand in exchange for my more weatherbeaten one, holding tightly to protect against a passing dog or the speeding traffic.
I get a start sometimes when she grabs and the skin hurts.
I guess I grimace ever so slightly.
I try not to. I put energy into it.
Because I know the day will come when she won’t want to hold my hand.
And then it’ll be a place in my heart that will hurt.
It’ll be my heartstrings that are tugged and not my hand.
And I’ll miss it.