The first time I took your hand, my mother made me.
At the school crossing, our mittened hands pressed together,
held there.
A few years later, walking home from school,
the rain broke without warning.
You looked at me,
slipped your hand into mine,
and we ran.
On our wedding day,
I took your hand,
your palm warm in mine,
a slight tremor there
as I slid the ring on.
At the birth of our first,
you crushed my hand in yours,
knuckles white,
holding me as if to bedrock,
while contractions broke over you.
I held onto you,
useless but necessary.
When you fell ill,
I held your hand.
Thinner than before,
fingers loose in my palm,
skin pale under the hospital lights.
I kept reaching for your wrist,
searching for a faint pulse.
The final time I took your hand,
the ring was loose on your finger.
Life had already left it.
It still held warmth.
It was no longer yours.
I squeezed once.