Jenny grabs my hand and doesn’t let go. We end up walking and talking, holding hands. The first time she held my hand, it was a surprise. We didn’t really know each other well. Our friendship began as social acquaintances. We met through a mutually supported organization. Every time we see each other now, we hold hands.
Why aren’t we all holding hands? I look forward to seeing Jenny and holding hands even if for 2 minutes while we attempt to catch up on months of living. Through this simple act of communication, our connection is amplified.
Holding hands with my toddlers was like wrangling a fish on a hook. The circumstances when I was insistent that they had to hold my hand, and they were equally insistent that they be given their freedom. My motivation was to keep them safe at a point in their development when everything was new and exciting. Then there were moments when their hot, candy-sticky hands would find mine, a soothing reminder of our closeness. The tugging hand holding, an exclamation point, when I was lagging behind or not paying attention to the desired destination. Disneyland comes to mind.
Goggy, my Pasadena grandmother and I would hold hands. She moved from the East Coast to Pasadena when I was 1 years old. I spent almost every weekend with her. One of our favorite adventures was to take the bus from Pasadena to Hollywood. We rode the bus to Hollywood Blvd where we would ring the bell to make sure the bus driver stopped. We walked along the boulevard reading the names of the sidewalk stars. Eventually, we would make our way to an old-fashioned drugstore counter for a hot fudge sundae. Releasing each other to grab a spoon and dig into the whipped cream, gooey goodness. Coming from Pasadena, Hollywood was like a foreign land which was the appeal. My grandmother would give my hand a quick, double squeeze to make sure I didn’t miss the gold lame suit with platform boots, or the evening gown worn with a fuschia boa. Looking back, there is no way anyone could miss these outfits, clearly worn to be seen. Our hand squeezes were a secret code for our club of two.
My North Carolina grandparents moved to a Senior Living apartment shortly before my grandfather passed away. They had been planning the move for about a decade before they were actually ready to live in self-imposed confinement. Planning was one of their superpowers. Their apartment had a good view and allowed for independent-ish living. After my grandfather was gone, many of the widows in the building sought out my grandmother to comfort her. She was dismissive of their attempts to find common ground in their losses. Grandma Connie and I would often hold hands when we were together. It was a much more efficient and effective way of communicating our feelings. My words felt clumsy and an insufficient attempt to name the ways in which she and my grandfather had shaped my life. Not to mention, her reluctance to wear her hearing aids. Her hands were soft and cool, a single, worn band adorned her ring finger. She never painted her fingernails. Her skin was fragile and the prominent veins created an uneven landscape. Her gentle squeeze spoke volumes.
Wordless conversations in the touch of a hand.