Hanging on the wall in my room in a dark, lacquered frame, is a picture of my parents and me walking down a street teeming with people. The top of my head just reached my mom and dad’s shoulders, and the three of us are holding hands, eight-year-old me in the middle. I remember that feeling of safety and comfort every time I reached for my parents’ hands.
I’ve always held my parents’ hands. When I was little, I would stretch my arm up as far as I could, and when I thought my fingertips would brush against the sky, they grasped my mom or dad’s warm hands. As I got older and taller, I didn’t need to reach as high anymore to find my parents’ reassuring hands.
My dad’s hands are calloused, uneven, and leathery. His hands are bigger than mine, and he can easily enclose my hands in his. My mom’s hands are veiny, soft, and mostly smooth with some creases. Her hands are a slightly bigger than mine and still comforting.
Most people stop holding their parents’ hands when they grow up. I don’t think I’ll ever stop holding my parents’ hands, and if that means I’ll never grow up, that’s not so bad.
I hold onto my parents’ hands because I’m holding onto my childhood. I’m holding onto the love and care my parents gave and give to me.
-Tana-Isabela "Holding On"