Holding Hands

I used to believe that Nico would always want to hold my hand or my hair. When walking became available to him, he would take my hand. Easily and naturally. Walking on 24th street near home, crossing an intersection. As soon as we left the house, our hands met as we meandered.

He moved between my breast and the bottle until he was one. I held his tiny warm foot as he nursed. When he found his words he would announce, “Give me some hair,” as the bottle was presented. I always loaned him some of my long, still red hair. He held his bottle with confidence as he held tight to my tresses, as if doing so would make the milk flow. We had to strike a bargain about releasing the bottle when he was 4 or so. I can’t remember and wonder now if there was a right time to negotiate with him. It seemed almost seamless, this leaving the breast and then the bottle. But thankfully holding hands continued.

Warm and small and then somewhat bigger. I used to believe he would always want to hold my hand. To have me guide him through the world or up a hill or down the street. I don’t remember when his tiny hands grew bigger than mine or when he held other hands. Or the paraphernalia of adolescence. A tennis racket, a burrito, the girl whose name I can’t remember who he shyly brought home one afternoon. I am sure he held her hand.

Out at Slide Ranch he loaned me his hand as we scrambled down a path to the beach and scrabbled over the rocks. I don’t remember if I was in danger of twisting a limb or meandering off the path, but his hand outstretched with fingers and a palm much longer and broader than my own. The contact was relatively short, but the memory is as if it happened yesterday. Perhaps he was returning the favor of a safe childhood. Holding hands and hair and feet.

Some years later, as his mania enveloped both of us and the alcohol announced that it wasn’t leaving, at least not yet, he lay on his bed in our hotel room and wondered who he was. Feeling alone and scared, but not yet ready to carry the responsibility for his mania and addiction. His vulnerability, his fear and his bravado were equally present. He talked as he fell asleep. I held his bare foot, the one with dry, cracked skin and unkempt toenails, the one neglected almost in protest of the call to sobriety which he was not yet ready to heed as his own.

His foot was so much bigger than the one I had held close to my breast. The tiny foot was soft and smooth and fit into the palm of my hand. This foot, now on his bed at the hotel in Portland where I had come in hopes of rescuing him, was a size 12 to my 8. My hand could not reach around to hold all of him. Different than my heart, which still and always carries his 5 foot, 10 inch frame inside.

 We hiked together recently, now that he is almost 6 years sober, I worry less. Much less. But still there are moments when I fear for the world that is his future. The crazy unknown.

I know I will always be holding him. Even if his big hands and large feet move further from San Francisco than the 8-hour drive to Los Angeles. I will be holding his hand and he will be holding mine. I used to believe that Nico would always want to hold my hand. Or ask for some hair or a foot rub. I knew he would grow up and separate as is right and appropriate. I could only hope that we would stay close even if his room wasn’t just down the hall. This mother’s day he wrote, “thank you for being the greatest Mom in the world.” Tears present themselves every time I read this line. I keep the card on my desk, still in its envelope. Available when I miss his tiny, soft, warm hands. Perhaps holding his hand has become these words which will forever keep us in each other’s hearts.