He slips his hand into mine. His fingers are long, grubby: his nails a little scraggy. But his skin is smooth and soft, the pudginess long gone. He grasps my hand tight, claiming his ownership.
He slips his hand into mine. With purpose but without. Not to pull me somewhere. Not to cross the street or jump a puddle. Not to shy away from someone else. Just because. He is happy and carefree. The day is beautiful. He wants to share this with me.
He slips his hand into mine. Our chromosomes touch and connect. My womb contracts. It recognizes this skinny creature that it created, once balls of cells, now growing tall, handsome, sucking in food and knowledge and the thrills of boyhood with equal measure and hunger.
He slips his hand into mine and I hold on tight. One day, this may be an anathema to him; totally uncool.
He slips his hand into mine and my brain inflates, grasping to capture the sensation and retain the memory of every time he has held my hand in his seven and a quarter years.
He slips his hand into mine. My heart swells and gushes. This moment completes me.