Hands.

Our hands are a strange match. We walk side by side down the sidewalk and he outstretches his hand for mine, a gesture I’m still adjusting to since I’m used to walking with my hands shoved in my pockets or wrapped around the body of a toddler. I put my hand in his, our fingers interlock; his huge palm taking my hand, which is disproportionately small compared to the rest of my body.

His hands are always warm. Not clammy, but warm. Welcoming. I love holding his hand. Even though it dwarfs my own. Somehow once my fingers interlock with and wrap around his, it just makes sense to be standing next to him, walking next to him, occasionally looking up from my slightly limping gait to smile at him sheepishly. Like I’m 20 again and a stupid kid with an unabashed crush on a guy she never thought she’d stand a chance with.

I loved him then. I wouldn’t have told him unless hiding behind the excuse of alcohol, but I did. I loved him as I quietly followed him after our falling out, desperately hoping he was happy. I loved him when he was just a friend listening to me vent and emote through the early days (and very late nights and early mornings) of parenthood, when I felt so alone and abandoned and clueless. And I loved him when we finally admitted it to each other. Regardless of the situation, I loved him.

He’s the first man I have ever loved unconditionally and known it was returned. It’s new. It’s incredible.

It’s terrifying.

Driving down US 24 from Defiance to Toledo, the Maumee River lies on the north side of the road. I cross over it as US 24 and Ohio 6 branch off, and then it weaves away from the highway for about 30 miles before it finally meets up with US 24 again. Then it’s beautiful. It’s one of my favorite stretches to drive along. The time between that first river crossing and the meet-up is one of the most painfully boring drives you could ever imagine, in the flatlands of Ohio with nothing but plowed-down, empty fields as far as the eye can see. But without that bland stretch, I wouldn't enjoy the river nearly as much as I do when it reappears on the drive.

He’s my river. It’s worth the boring drive to meet up with the river again and be able to enjoy the drive again.

So I grip onto his hand maybe a little tighter than I did when we were younger, because I’ve seen the drive without the river, I’ve spent enough time without him, to know that it’s worth it to be beside him again. Because sometimes you have to drive through the shitty boring farm towns to appreciate the drive along the river. Because I want this, all of this, more of this. The reserve runs deep and I want to love him as long as I am able to this time. I want to hold his hand, I want him to reach for mine.

Because as long as he reaches for mine, I will reach back this time.



Maybe this time, I'll be lucky
Maybe this time, he'll stay...