Move your mouse over here!
Previous page

Holding His Hand

I bend down to a kneeling position as I tie the laces on his shoes. Once again, he is in his favorite brown loafers which he insists on wearing every day no matter the ragged condition. My back and knees cry out in unison, both betraying my age and physical condition. All the pain balms in the world can't repair arthritic joints.

I help him up from the chair. He stands almost straight, but the small curve of his back tells of soft bones. I retrieve my tote bag from the counter which is filled with his necessities: a small bottle of water, an egg salad sandwich with extra mayo and sweet pickles, wet wipes safely stored in a zip-lock bag, and a large diaper which fits snuggly beside the sandwich bag.

Tote bag over my shoulder, I take his hand as we head out the door, down the pathway and to the car. I release his hand and fumble with my keys. He grabs for my left hand just as the car door unlocks. I help him into the car, adjust and fasten his seat belt, before closing the door. I watch him fidget then struggle to unhook the belt. With a little haste, I make it to my seat before he can unlatch the buckle. A light pat on his shoulder reassures him that I am there; no need to worry.

Reaching around to the back of the car, I drop the tote bag to the floor; turn around and say a short prayer for traveling mercy before turning on the ignition. I smile at him as I wonder when I became the parent, and my father, the child.

Story by:

Arlene Antoinette

30 July 2018