His Hand In MineHe asked if he could take my hand, the traffic noise in his ear I said yes and took his hand, his family nowhere near and when we reached the other side, he smiled at me and said every one is so good and kind, when you are one of the dead
I walk with his hand in mine every day of my life, and often wonder what he may be up to. He liked the beach, with the rushing sound of the waves and the buoy bells beckoning. He often spoke of long calm seas and blistering sun. Of dipping his jeans into to the salted water, then hang them to dry and let the sun bleach the indigo to a more softened hue. He liked the call of the gull and the sandpiper, and the shrill note of the plover. I cannot hear these sounds without his words coming to my ears.
Oh joy! The sound of the waves as they crash upon the rocks, and the plover’s call, leading me back to the time when I held his hand in mine.