holding dad

His hand.  The instant I took this picture and viewed it, my son’s hand drew my attention.  It felt…familiar.  Its placement.  Its energy.   Its “feel.”  It all reminded me of something.

A few weeks later, after I had printed out these pictures and was putting them into an album (yes, we still do this!), I held this one in my own hand.  I looked at it for awhile.  Then, I saw it.  I paused and began to tear up.  I started going through other albums, searching for a picture of my own hand holding someone.  The first one I found was of me and Brian at my brother’s wedding.

And there was my hand.  Holding.  Brian.  Just.  Like. My. Son’s.

holding brian

I am thinking now of how we grow in to the people closest to us without even knowing it or trying to make it so (or trying to NOT make it so, in some cases).  How we reflect the people dearest to us in our mannerisms, tone of voice, and the way we carry ourselves.  How we hold the energy, vibe, and emotional “tone” of those we are with day-in and day-out in the very cells of our body.  How our spirits, though are each unique and with their own vocation/calling/path, live outside of us in the people we birth, hold, love, break bread with, argue with, tend to, and make love with.

And though there are many times when I wonder if I speak “boy” and wonder what I am passing down to my son (and my daughter), these pictures of our hands today bring me comfort.  And I exhale.  Without my even willing it or working at it, something, something of my kindness and passion for, well, holding others, is in my son’s hands.