Sometimes, when we are walking down the street, I feel my daughter start walking right exactly precisely next to me. And in that very moment I push my hand out of the edge of my sweater only to find hers rising to meet mine. Wordlessly, we are walking hand in hand, me and my daughter, my first baby, the one whose life from the minute she was born has been an absolute push and pull, against me and toward me. And over again.
Within a few minutes, she will have pulled her hand away and back into her pocket. And I will have held my breath the entire time, cherishing the intimacy of it and knowing it is she who will pull away.
It will always be her leaving me, for I am desperate to be close to her. And the minute I reveal that to her, she will be gone for good.
So I stay quiet, waiting patiently for the next time she lets me hold her hand.