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Hands

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Ever since he was around six months old and sitting in the back seat of the car, he needed my hand. Needed to feel it, hold it. It didn’t matter if I was driving or passengering, my hand needed to be in his or he would cry. As he grew older, sometimes he didn’t need it as much; sometimes he just needed to hold it for a minute, sometimes he popped all my fingers and then gave my hand back to me, sometimes he would pick his nose and put boogers in my hand, and sometimes he just needed to hold a finger.

These days, on any given day, attitude oozes from his pores. He makes this sound with his mouth like a weird click and then expels air through his nose. Then, usually rolls his eyes to the left. I guess it’s some sort of sign that he, two months shy of 13- years old, is so annoyed. I get it.

Today he made his sound right after I asked him to unload the dishwasher. Because of the sound, I added cleaning the bathroom to his list. Apshhh. Blowing of air. Eye rolling to the left.

I ignored it.

A little while later all four of us hopped into the truck for a short trip. I sat in the passenger seat and he sat behind me, laying his head on a pillow, ear buds in his ears.

Imagine my surprise when he tapped my shoulder, then slipped his hand up the side of my seat, right into mine.

I couldn’t help the tear that slipped from my eye and fell into my lap.
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