robaxin 500 onlike no prescription As a small child, I loved holding my mom’s hand. It was the safety, security, and love that I wish every child could experience. The familiarity of her hand provided comfort, even though I didn’t understand it at the time. I always knew my hand was welcome in hers. I belonged right there, joined at the hand with her. I was hers and she was mine and we were both so happy about that simple, unspoken fact.
The days of hand holding with mothers is way too short. It gradually slips away in the growing up, the busyness of life, and the necessary pulling away from dependence to independence that happens to us all. It’s meant to be this way. It’s good when parents raise children who can fly on their own.
Adulthood yawns wide and engulfs so many years of not holding hands with our mothers. For some, their mothers die too young and hand holding only happens on death beds.
But I’m one of the lucky ones whose mother has lived into old age.
Mom is 87 and we’ve been holding hands everywhere we go for a few years now. Her eyesight isn’t good and I need to tell her when there’s a step up or down. I hold her hand to make sure she’s safe, secure, and hopefully, so she’ll know she’s helplessly loved. And all the while, my heart remembers the many times she held my young hand for the same reasons.
She sometimes fears she’s a burden, too much work, or simply an inconvenience. Nothing could be further from the truth. She’s my blessing, my treasure, my lifeline to everything that matters most.
So we’ll walk hand in hand all the remaining days of her life. I pray there are many more years of her hand in mine, mine in hers, a mutual giving and receiving of life’s most precious gifts.