Little Hands

Little hands, so small and strong, grasping my own as we bounce against the forest floor.
I can feel the vibration within my shoes as they hit the soil, so damp and serene. They feel wrong. They feel unnecessary here. It all seems unnecessary, except these little hands in mine. She looks up at me in a way I could never experience anywhere else. These little hands, they kindly grasp my own in a way that lets me know she trusts me, the environment, and whatever is in front of our next step.

Little hands, ringing through the forest. The land is damp, the smell of cedar and erosion is present but you and I both know this is what we live for. To feel the wilderness, to breathe deeply, to run at our own pace. Your eyes lead mine to so many things I forgot to see, forgot to acknowledge. Your thoughts never run through my head at a discredited value, for you remind me of so many things I may have thought I grew out of, grew out of out of ignorance for the world around me. You don’t remind me of what it is like to be young, you remind me of what it is like to be present.
Little hands, so small and warm, you show me what it is like to live in this world.

I see myself in you. I see what I used to be, what I used to be able to achieve. As time has passed, I’ve forgotten a lot about the importance of life—I’ve thought more about the materialistic: jobs, people, money, rent. What you remind me to do is be in tune with relationships. Not just romantic, not just between human interactions, but the interaction with the soil beneath me, the air drifting in and out of my lungs, the wind twirling our hair. The things that I cannot replace– the things that remind me of what is necessary and what I have placed importance on. Little hands, you are necessary. You are loved.

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