I walked in Dexter’s room to check on him and pull the covers up.
He was laying on his back, with his palm on his pillow, facing to the ceiling.
So open and vulnerable. As if asking the world to take his hand.
I looked closer at that hand – it is so much like mine. I have “Little old lady hands” – tonnes of wrinkles and lines that I like to think tell a story.
Dexter, his hands tell a story.
He has so many little lines on those tiny hands.
I gently stroked his hand and I wondered about all the things those hands would do.
The stories they’d write.
The foods they’d cook.
The presents they’d wrap.
The hands they’d hold.
The children they’d cradle.
I held his hand as he slept and it hit me with such intensity I was almost crying – the world literally is at his fingertips.
The things he’ll see and do and touch, I can hardly imagine the extent of what he’ll do.
I can’t begin to dream the possibilities that await him.
I felt so privileged to sit there and hold those hands. To have that moment in time all to my self.
To have the memory, so when he is older and he has done great things, I can think back to the time when it was me who held his hands and him who offers them up so freely and with so much trust.