Holding Hands

Emma and I have this way of moving through crowds with ease, we simply lightly touch one another's hand reassuring us that we are both present in the movement that surrounds us.

Today as we walked the streets of our Nations Capital we were holding hands not because the crowd was thick or because the movement was so strong but simply as a way to connect.  Holding hands is our way of showing affection and our way of saying that we are present with one another in the moment.

This afternoon as we made our way through the Holocaust Museum I allowed her to make the journey at her own pace (which I knew would be faster than mine).  We had a specific area at the end of the journey that we knew we would be able to easily find one another and be reunited.

I was not concerned.

I was not bothered.

I was not afraid for her.

I was not fearful.

I was confident.

I was secure.

I was pleased that my daughter was wise enough and independent enough to want to walk this journey and to be able to sit at the end while waiting for me.  I was thankful for her.

The crowds were getting heavier and she wanted to walk faster so we released hands with confidence that we would be together at the end.

As I walked my pace, read the journey of those who's birth lineage had put them in harms way,my mind drifted about all the mothers and fathers who had held onto to their own children in a different kind of journey.  The mothers and fathers who had held their children's hands and looked into their eyes before sending them into the streets with the bright yellow star of David sewn into onto their garments only to be ostracized because they were from a different blood lineage.   I thought about the ways the parents would held onto their children as they found themselves boarding trains.  Parents not gentling brushing their child's hand in the midst of the crowd but squeezing their hands for fear that they would never see them again.  The journey of men and women being separated before entering the lines to underground gas cambers that awaited them.  The mom holding the small daughter's hand as they descended the steps into the a room where they were literally stripped of all of their dignity.  Parents letting go of their child's hand hoping that they would be reunited at the end of the journey.

Holding hands is such a simple gesture of being present with one another.

Today I am thankful that as I let Emma's hand slip away that I could be confident that our hands would be reunited at the end of the exhibit.  As we made our way back to Kristin's apartment I was thankful that my 12 year (soon to be 13) still wanted to hold my hand.


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