Three squeezes.

I give her finger three squeezes, my tiny, hand not big enough to reach across her palm. It’s an unspoken caress in a household full of distance and cold words. Her digits are firm, strong, and confident, just what a shy, little girl needs.

Three squeezes.

I’m too old to hold her hand now, but old enough to take advantage. Just another dumb teenager trying to pretend I know my way around the world. She has my back, while I’m blinded by youth’s stupidity.

Three squeezes.

She’s there for me whenever I need her, unconditional love despite my imperfections and obvious downfalls. I’ve aged and see that I’ve neglected her love but don’t know how to redeem myself. Although we don’t say the words, we know the feelings run deep.

Three squeezes.

Her hand, frail and so thin I can see the blood pumping through her veins. Folds of loose skin have replaced the muscle and tendon that once wrapped around her bone. So weak, so lost in the disease. She looks at me with hollow eyes, vacant except for the pain. She gathers her strength for her final three words, words we never spoke, yet shouted to each other.

Three squeezes.