With Both Hands.

There are two pictures in my journal:

In one picture, it is dark out. There aren’t any lights on the gravel path. We are in a cemetery.

He is walking in front of me with a backpack on. He holds his longboard in his left hand. His dimples are showing, and his eyes are shining.  His right hand is extended to protect me from falling.

He is watching the path to make sure there aren’t any potholes.  I am on roller blades behind him. My fists are clamped as I hold on to the straps of his backpack.My knees are bent while I roll.

I am keeping my eyes off the path. We are breathing heavy. We are going down a steep hill. But my head is up; I am looking at the stars. I am laughing at something he said.

I am holding his backpack with both hands. 

In the next picture, I am sitting alone on my bed; it isn’t made yet. My head is on my knees. My cheeks are flushed. I am clenching my jaw. My eyes are closed.

A laptop sits next to me with a lecture paused. My phone is lit up from a nursing student group chat. My earbuds are in; I don’t want to hear the news on the TV.  Pages and pages and pages of drugs to memorize are scattered around me. 

I am gripping my family’s missionary prayer card with both hands.

A third picture falls out, and I bend down to pick it up. 

In this picture, a little girl is being held by a man wearing all white. Her clothes are dirty. A wisp of hair falls across her cheek. A single tear streak runs down her face.

She is sound asleep: tucked securely under his chin. He has his eyes closed. His forehead is wrinkled. His arms are tight around her, as if he will never let her go.

He holds her securely: with both of his nail scarred hands. 

(cover image taken from https://www.centennialparklands.com.au/visit/things-to-see-and-do/rollerblading)