We don't hold hands anymore.
At least not regularly.
I mean there was one time, on date weekend in New York, when we did hold hands a whole bunch.
We don't hold hands anymore, so when I see other couples frequently anchored to one another by way of a five-finger grasp, I feel a little pang.
Of jealousy? Maybe
But, then I remember that although my husband doesn't hold my hand a lot, he holds my heart, right next to his, every single day.
He holds space for me.
He holds our relationship sacred.
He holds me up if ever I'm feeling weak.
If I'm down, he holds his arms out and lets me fall into them.
He holds my purse.
He holds my children.
He holds my face in his hands when we kiss.
He may not hold my hand, my husband, but he also doesn't hold me back.
We don't hold hands anymore, but I think he holds me plenty.
And, because of that, he holds my future.