I used to sneak
into your room
while
you slept
your chubby
little arms up over your head
in relaxed
tiny fists
the
dimples on your cheeks
matched
the ones on your hands
no matter how big you grew
no matter how distant your infancy started to
feel
I would foolishly measure your little-ness
by those hand dimples
innocent, soft, milky white hands
with sweet short fingers, neatly trimmed nails
tiny peekaboo dimples over each knuckle
assuring me of what still remained:
your baby-ness and mushy-ness and delicious-ness
as long as I could still see those tiny hand
dimples
I could believe you were still a baby
My baby
they filled in a while ago
along with your face and shoulders and arms
you are truly living up to your nickname now
The Gentle Giant
your shoulders almost as broad as your daddy’s
your muscles almost as strong
when I hug you
I have to get on my tippy toes
your arms surround me and make me question
who
at this point
is protecting who
those tiny, boyish, dimply hands are now
nearly the largest in the house
they open jars and lift heavy things
and can now hold me back with ease
when I try to tickle or wrestle with you
like we used to
the sweetness and softness are still there
when you humor me and still let me
hold your hand in the car while I drive
but now my hand is enveloped
swallowed by yours
they are grown-man-hands
but still feel like my baby’s hands
I snuck into your room last night
your now chiseled face was nearly hidden
by your Jurassic Park comforter
your body so big that
one foot nearly touched the wall at the end
of the bed
it made my heart sing and ache to see that
your hand was curled around
an orange stuffed dinosaur
but as I leaned in to steal a silent kiss
I most definitely did not see
any
hand dimples
