A Hand To Hold

A short time ago my six year old daughter’s teacher told her that she’d soon be old enough to walk to class by herself, and not “drag her poor dad along all the way from the car.”  I was within ear shot of this at the time, and casually smiled it off as a non occurrence.  But for some reason this morning it came back to me, and the profoundness and fragility of such an utterance hit me hard.  It occurred to me that I never want my daughter to feel so grown up that she wouldn’t want me to walk somewhere with her.  I never want her to be so grown up that she doesn’t want to hold my hand in front of her friends, or give me a kiss and a hug goodbye in the morning, or be embarrassed by me when I goof around with her in public.  I want to be with her until I take that last walk with her down the aisle, and hand her off to whom ever she chooses to be her life partner … and even then, I’ll have problems letting go.

I remember the first morning I saw you
Taking your first peek at the world
And the look of confusion
And a face full of questions
But no fear.

I remember it was raining
A typical Irish day
Though it was June
And in my heart I knew
That my life was now not my own.

I remember phone calls made and one line texts
Telling those who cared that all was well
Five fingers five toes and eyes that were mine
And making plans to wet the baby’s head
Old Irish traditions live long

I remember Granny
And the first time she held you
In the sun lounge where the sun seldom shines
And her smile speaking volumes
The way only a granny’s smile can

I remember your first day in school
And tears that were shed
And wondering where the years had gone
And why so fast
And becoming fearful of a future without you

I remember all of your days
Your first steps
Your first fall
Your first words
Your first smile
Your first pain
Your first ice cream
Your first everything

When you have grown
And put away those little girl ways
And live in a world of your own making
And no longer need my hand to hold
I hope it is because I have taught you well.

© 2009, Tim (P) Prendeville