Parking lots

I recall getting out of the car at a shopping mall one day with my two daughters. The eldest must have been around 12 and the youngest around 8. The youngest automatically reached out and grabbed my hand as we walked through the parking lot towards the mall. The eldest stuck her hands in her pockets and walked a little faster to stay ahead of us.

The youngest asked why the eldest wasn’t holding my hand. I explained that one day, she too would be too old to want to hold my hand, and that she would be able to walk through the parking lots on her own without me. The youngest told me that she would always want to hold my hand, no matter how old she was.

Fade ten or eleven years. The youngest is now living in a college dormitory. I feel like part of me has been ripped off and hidden away.

Now I sit here in our empty house, wishing that I had her hand to hold in mind for just one or two more trips across the mall parking lot. Perhaps she doesn’t need my hand to hold on to anymore, but perhaps, just perhaps, I need her hand to hold on to once in awhile.