Hands

He always reaches up for my hand when we walk down the stairs together.

Wasn't it just yesterday that tiny, premature hand could barely close around my pinky finger?

Now, it fills my entire palm.  When I squeeze, it squeezes back.  And I realize he's not a baby anymore.

For the entire time it takes us to get down the stairs, we hold hands.  I hold tighter.  Because I know before I blink, that already too big hand will be bigger than mine.