His Hands

It was his hand I held onto, for several years, the only hand I wanted, the only hand I could see.. I fit perfectly in his strong hands, as if that was the place I was born to call my home.. I grew secure holding his hand.. When I was happy, I softly dangle my fingers from his, swinging our arms like children skipping down the street.. When I was afraid, I''d clutch his hand tightly.. When I was crying, it was his fingertips that dried my tears.. When I grew insecure, he''d brush the hair from my eyes, cup my face in his hand, and tell me I''m beautiful.. Sometimes his grip was fierce, sometimes it was gentle, sometimes I could barely feel his touch.. I became dependent on his hands.. I grew afraid to let go, afraid I''d be left alone and desolate.. I couldnt see anything else, but the hand I held desperately.. With his other hand out of sight, he was slipping a ring on the finger of another, a tangible token of his love and devotion.. My own grip tightened, fierce and myopic.. Everything else slipped away, my survival depended solely on the hand I was left with.. I became insistent on a journey of self destruction, self punishment, solitude.. In my misery, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of other hands emerging, hands of friends that I had neglected, hands that were reaching for me..I pushed them away, for fear of losing everything if I let go.. Gentle words of encouragement were spoken to me, reminding me of their love, begging me to please trust, to allow them to carry me if the need arises, to build me up, and nurture me back to health.. These hands of my beautiful friends begged me to find my courage, to let go of the hand that hurts me, and step towards my own liberation.. I raised my head toward the heavens, took a deep breath, blinked away the tears that threatened, and let go.....