Holding Hands ©©

Sometimes I think I have lived to long because of what I have been forced to witness.
With all I have been through in this existence we call life it pales to what I have seen and I am not talking about the things I have seen when I was dealing drugs or being part of all of that.
That was ugly but what I see every day here and on the news.
I am talking about stuff like getting a phone call from a friend and him telling you they are parents and then you go see how happy they are because of a small bundle that didn’t exist nine months earlier.
A tiny hand gripping a finger feeling the safety it represented sending spasms of pride and love though two people.

I remember watching them walk by on their way to the store to get their daughter whatever would put a smile on his face and then watch her hold his mother’s hand or maybe his father’s hand as they walk back to the park.

To watch her sit on his mother’s lap and hear her say he loves him.
The squeals of glee as her swing rises higher and higher to the sky as he slides down the slide to her father’s waiting arms.

I remember when they had to pry their hands apart on that first day of kindergaden and her mother said he would come pick him up after and she could tell her how his day was.
Afterwards he would pick him up and she would hold her hand as they walked to the car.

Dance classes, karate school what ever he desired she got and they went together.
Countless school plays, recitals, they were always perfect and they clapped the loudest and were first back stage with a hug.
They walked out holding hands.

Christmas hugs, smiles and memories they made as the years passed and she grew up into a young woman and preparing to find his first home away from home.
They loaded his car up together and holding his hand she walked him in and kissed her forehead and kissed her father before he drove off as they stood there watching her go.

I have seen the taunt hands gripping the brass handle as he walked her up the aisle one last time before she kissed his forehead one last time.

I have seen a mother cry
I heard a father ask why
Their baby had to die

Three or thirty three
What they hear, they will never see
A dream, that will never be.

Lonely nights await
Memories that stop on a specific date
If only… but no, it’s to late

Emtpy halls
Silent walls
No more calls

I have seen to many bury their children
To too many

Walker