My Hands, Her Hands

Her Hands; grasping, reaching, curling. Tightly holding onto my own.
They are small, very small; pink and soft in the manner of small babies.

They pinch, they tug. They cling, they hug. Sometimes they smell like strawberries.
Other times, they smell like cheerios, or soil from crawling outside.

Her hands fit in my own. Rougher, larger longer.
Scars along portions; they have not the soft pink warmth her hands hold now.

My hands hold hers, soothing textures sometimes to be gnawed upon
or to wipe away tears.

Her hands, they hold my hands. My hands, they hold her hands.
My Little Hands.