My most treasured memory
As we walk back from dinner along the path near the beach, the island breeze rustles the palm leaves above us.
Side by side, we meander along,
looking out over the mirrored ocean.
After a few minutes, I feel my son’s hand slip into mine.
I look over and see that he’s holding onto Mike’s hand too.
My daughter is walking next to me on the other side. I reach for her hand and squeeze it.
She squeezes back,
and doesn’t let go.
Suddenly, I’m aware of every word between us,
I almost hold my breath, sure that if make a sound or say something,
both my kids will
It seems like my son–9 years old–outgrew holding hands ages ago.
And even though my daughter–11–still holds mine, she doesn’t do it as often as she used to.
Yet here we are
the four of us,
holding hands together,
I want to somehow video tape the moment, or take a picture.
I want to capture this slice of time and bottle it up,
because I’m not sure when we’ll hold hands like this again.
I keep walking,
relishing what I know will be my most treasured memory from our vacation.
And as we near our hotel,
I look up into the sky,
and I thank God for these two precious kids
and for Mike,
and for the family that we are.