I am four, maybe five, years old. I am walking with my father. I think that we are going to the playground or, maybe, to watch my brothers play basketball? I have no real recollection of the season or of the circumstances, but what I do remember is that I reach for my father’s hand, he gives mine a quick squeeze and then releases it. No words, no explanation, just a squeeze of acknowledgement and then gone again. I am struck by how much this feels like rejection. There were other moments when I reached for his hand, either as a young child struggling to keep up with his adult gait or as an adolescent looking for some warmth from an otherwise lukewarm man…each time, the same response: a quick squeeze and then release. Each time, a confusing sense of rejection that I didn’t quite understand.
As I grew into an adult, this became a dance we continued in our long distant phone conversations. We always seemed to connect and yet he was always just outside of my reach. I’d know that he was there, I’d feel his hand tighten around mine, even from hundreds of miles away, and then the distance would return. My father had a stroke when I was in my late twenties and then died a few years later. In the years between the stroke and his death, he stopped releasing my hand. He was present in a way that I had always longed for and I even was able to hold his hand, literally, for longer periods of time. In fact, in the days before his death, I sat and held his hand as he drifted in and out of consciousness, very much aware of how far we’d come since that brief moment when I was a little kid.
I am so much like my father; there are so many ways that my life mirrors his. There is so much work that I have done to avoid being the worst version of him…but I worry that I, too, am the one who lets go of the hands that reach for mine.
amyilene 
I love the symbolism within your writing. The importance of the hands and the grip. the contrast between the time before your Dad was ill and after his illness. This is a wonderful slice.
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This is very powerful. I identify with you, in feeling that you may be a little bit that way, too. Me, too. I imagine that perhaps there are other, more comfortable ways that you show your love to others. Maybe through writing??? 🙂
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Your writing here is so poignant. You describe so well, the feeling of hurt and rejection as young girl (through the simple act of hand holding). As adults, we need to be aware of the things we do that send the wrong messages to our little ones because they can last a lifetime. I’m so glad you were able to hold hands at the end.
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What a powerful (not really so) small memory. I am struck by the power of the repetition throughout the piece of the quick squeeze and then release. And that last line! “the one who lets go of the hands that reach for mine” That is a powerful image.
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So much is said here! You are reaching for so much and you can feel it in your writing. Thanks for sharing.
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I too, love the symbolism of the hands. Our hands tell us and others so much about ourselves. You have captured your relationship with our father beautifully here. I’m glad the hands from both of you told a different story in the end. Forgiveness is not easy for any hand to hold onto.
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Such a powerful final line! This is a really beautiful well-crafted piece. The hands are a powerful symbol for the relationship you sought and that always seemed just out of reach.
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