Little Hands...

I walk through this life of mine. No more special or privileged than any one else. On this walk, I am usually with others and always with myself. Sometimes while on this walk, I see the little hands reaching out to us. And I am always reminded, by those little hands, that I am a part of us.
Those hands reach out and tremble. Small and cold, just wanting to be held. So I take hold of those hands. Some pull away, but usually they just hold mine too. Together we walk, and the warmth grows between us. Later, I must let go of these hands, for their walk is different than mine. They are bigger now than before. Full of strength, warmth and confidence. And they remind me, that I am now a part of them. Then those hands wave and walk away.

A poem about and for my wonderful wife Tina and all the other wives, mothers and teachers of this world. Willing to the hold the hands that reach out to them every day.