A Hand to Hold

Spencer is a hand (finger?) holder.

I know, I know, it's a reflex.

But it's his thing. Hair was Lucy's thing. She batted at my hair when she nursed, clung to my hair when she cried, twirled my hair when she was tired. But Spencer likes to hold hands. It's comforting to him in a way that it never was to Lucy. He must have inherited the preference from me.

Hand holding has always been important to me. Significant. Indicative of intimacy. I grew up holding hands with my dad. Even when I was a teenager. It never felt childish or uncool to me. Just sweet. I have a cherished memory of walking hand in hand with Dad by the banks of the Mississippi river during one of our Nauvoo trips. We didn't talk much as we walked, but I think Dad knew my feelings. And I think I understood his. I will always love my father's big, soft hands.

Maybe holding my daddy's hand for so long spoiled me a little. Maybe that's why I was p-i-c-k-y about holding hands during my dating career. Very few boys passed the test.

I dated one patient boy for a month and a half without even a hint of hand holding. Finally one Sunday afternoon he called and invited me on a walk. I knew that meant he was going to try to talk to me about the state of our relationship. Bother. He was a good boy. There were a thousand reasons why I should have been really attracted to him. I kept thinking that maybe after a few more dates I'd feel...something. I tried to decide what I should say to him that night. I should probably call things off. Should I? My roommates thought I should. I mostly thought I should. OK. I would. Nice boy knocked on the door. I took a deep breath. We walked and walked and talked and talked and I tried to stick to my guns. But every time I offered the "I'm just not feelin' it" argument, he countered with the seemingly reasonable assertion that maybe we just needed to take our relationship to the next level. I knew what that meant.
Maybe he was right. Sigh.
"Ok." I said (after about two hours). "Maybe you should walk me home. And maybe you should hold my hand."
Gulp.
He did walk me home. And he did hold my hand. We hugged at the doorstep.
"How'd it go?" my roommate Tanya asked when I stepped inside. "Good." I said with a cement smile and immediately scaled the stairs to my bedroom.
"Should I have liked that?" I wondered to myself. Cause I hadn't liked that. I had a knot in my stomach. I felt sick, but definitely not love sick. I weighed various options and solutions in my mind. How long should I give this? A week? A few days? Finally I just walked to the phone and dialed nice boy's number. It had been maybe 20 minutes since the hug on the doorstep. I don't remember exactly what I said. Something along the lines of "I don't think that was a very good idea."
Silence on his end.
Cringe on mine.

But there was another boy.
He and I went ice-blocking one surprisingly warm December night with a group of friends. We shared a turn on the ice and crashed half-way down the hill. He offered me his hand in assistance.
Two seconds worth of touch.
Nine years ago.
I still remember exactly what it felt like.

And I remember exactly what it felt like to slip both of my hands into both of his during a simple, insignificant conversation one Sunday evening two years later. I remember laying in bed that night feeling shocked. Shocked because that was a really flirtatious thing for my not-very-flirtatious self to do. Shocked because putting my hands in his seemed so natural. Like a reflex.

I wasn't really shocked a couple of weeks later when, sitting together on a large, lake-side rock, that boy held my hand again. A little more formally. "How do you feel about that?" he asked. My answer: "I feel good about that," was maybe the understatement of my life.

After a couple hours at the lake we went to a movie. Star Wars II. The arm-rest dug into my skin while we held hands but I don't remember caring. At all. (A few months later we watched Star Wars II at a friend's house. It was like I had never seen it before. I don't think I ever had.)

Holding hands was standard from that day on. But it was still special.

Never more special than the time we held hands across a beautiful alter in a beautiful mirrored room and made beautiful promises to each other.

Promises we've kept.

And hand holding is still standard. Sometimes it's casual and comfortable. Sometimes it's romantic. Some days our hands swing, light-hearted and happy. Some days they cling. Like in delivery rooms and doctors offices. Some weeks our hand to hand moments are few - divided between the other, tinier hands we hold. But that kind of division is really more like multiplication.

I will always be grateful for the comfort and constancy of a hand to hold.

But not just any hand.

Happy 6 years, Wes!