Holding Hands. By Eve Haines

Red, orange, green
Wait, Wait, Wait-Go!
And safe.
My hand, pale veiny and small, in my mother’s.
And between that grasp a billion memories stand.
My mother’s arms holding me, thumb tucked into my hand,
The one without the cannula –
But still pulling me to life.

In my first room, butterflies hanging on my wall.
My mother there
Always by my side,
Always holding my hand.

Run across the bridge
“We’re late, hold my hand!”
A squeeze prior to my first exam
But there
Always there
My hand always in yours.