In April 2019, Dad and I were holding my grandson’s hands as we walked, swinging him up as he jumped, lifting his legs to fly above a step. I had no idea this would be the last grandchild to hold his hand.

I remember all the hands he held. Watching over the years, in all the different locations.
On beaches, streets, walkways, and in buildings.

Both of my grandmothers’ hands. His sons’ hands when they were little, mine throughout my life. His grandchildren’s hands at every age and his great grandchildren’s hands as they were just beginning.

Mostly though, I remember him holding my Mom’s hand. Everyday, as though they were just starting their life together, even though that was long ago. She misses holding his hand, it was so much a part of who they were together.