Impressions

His small fist reaches mine;

he’s chosen my tight grip over

the other weathered hands.

His hand, like putty,

folds into the pocket of my palm,

a newborn butterfly seeking shelter

before it spreads fragile wings. I grasp

his small fingers, walk forward—

a human tether between

us. He follows,

looks around at the world,

while I focus on the cars driving.

Visions of unyielding

bumpers, cracking windshields, spinning

tires plague my mind—

all the ways a child can get hurt.

His touch, still damp from

the waters of Lake Tahoe, where

the small boy dug into coarse sand,

splashed in shimmering water.

Once we reach the car,

I unlock his hand and

he bounds forward to climb

into the van while the ghost

of his fingers still lingers against

my deserted skin.