Holding hands
The clearest vision for a child’s initial vision is that of a picture: holding his or her angelic little hand in the sun, by the grass, happily talking and laughing, running freely, and the heart is so happy that it is so light. kite.
Somehow, it’s just such a picture that I can’t get rid of. It seems that my happiest reverie about having a child is like that.
When I really have a child, I look forward to him growing up. Seeing that he can crawl, sit, stand, and walk; when he was still small, he always had to bend down to touch his hand, so he hoped that he would grow taller; before he knew it, he would be tall enough to hold hands with him. My hands were walking freely and stretched. At that time, it seemed as if I had just discovered the feeling of being a mother.
Children's hands are so soft and tender that you can't bear to hold them hard. Holding it in your hand, there will be a thin ray of warmth and tenderness. The fingers are as smooth as loaches . It seems that they can slip away at any time, but no matter how far they go, they will fly over like a bird in a while. The moment when you open your arms and wait to be embraced, your mood is filled with happiness.
Children’s hands are small but strong. Sometimes they want to break free, but they can’t. It's like there is a faint magnetic wire, attracting and pulling each other. Watching the children laughing and jumping in the circle drawn by my arms, I am often moved by the growth of a life.
Children like to be held by two adults and walk in the middle. He will playfully swing forward and back, fly up and down, and do his best. Because he believed that between two big hands, it must be the warmest and safest place. At this time, he would often raise his little face, look here and there, and his little mouth would smile proudly like a crescent moon. The innocence and indulgence revealed casually are intoxicating.
Sometimes, when children want to express themselves freely, they cannot be held back even if they want to. Look at him "galloping" indulgently: his little hands are swaying rhythmically, his little face is flushed, and a lock of hair on his forehead is blown up by the wind, with a trace of indifferent cunning and playfulness. He will suddenly stop while trotting and look for you with his bright eyes. Once he finds you looking at him not far away, he will spread his legs and run away. Because he knew that his mother's heart was always concerned about him.
The child is three years old. The sunny little boy is jumping around like this, enjoying the rain and wind along the way. I really like this, holding his hand, walking slowly, walking quickly, until the children grow up, until I grow old...
in 2005.6
