I carried my newborn son in a sling
as I went about my day
cradled against my body
as he slept
close to
the beating of my heart
the sigh of my breath
the murmur of my voice.
If he fussed, I put my hand in the cocoon
so that he could hold my finger
and know I was there
In his stroller
he turned around every once in a while
to make sure it was me
at his back
When he could walk
there was a way
he used to hold my hand when we crossed the street
or strolled in the park
Not with our digits neatly intertwined
one after another
But with his pinkie
inserted between my middle and pointer,
my thumb around his other fingers in the purlicue of my hand
It was our secret handshake
Storyteller