Can I Hold You
A tender reflection on the privilege of holding a child through first smiles, brave steps, storms, sickness, and every season of growing.
The night you came into this world – I held you close and wrapped you tight and whispered with a smile, “Can I hold you”?
The first time you smiled, you lit up the room. I swooped down, matching your smile with mine, I leaned in close and asked, “Can I hold you”?
And then you were off – crawling so fast, exploring the world that was now before you. On the other side of the room, you proudly turned and held up your arms. Beaming with pride, I knelt down by your side and asked “Can I hold you”?
You teetered and you tottered, and then you were walking. Growing stronger step by step. The world was opening up to you, you could go farther than you had before. No longer needing to bend, I held out my arms and with a laugh asked, “Can I hold you”?
The sniffles and the fever came, and the aches and the pain. The first night you were sick, I crept into your room, leaning over I swept you up and asked, “Can I hold you”?
You bravely explored outside, taking paths before you. Running ahead, fearless, you knew no bounds until your feet got ahead of you. Right by your side I came and knelt down. Kissing your bruises, dusting you off, I asked “Can I hold you?”
When the storm shook the house, and the rains pounded the roof, you came to the side of the bed. Unable to rest while the tempest shook outside, I sat you on my lap and asked, “Can I hold you”?
And like the first time I held you, when I first heard your cry, saw your eyes and beheld your wonder, I know now and forever there will never be a day I take for granted the gift of holding you.