Wrapped Around Her Finger

When Cora was tiny and I’d hold her bottle for her, she’d often grab one of my fingers in her hand. It wasn’t much of a grip, but it was cute and I was happy to have my baby hold onto me. It felt like she was claiming me, and I was thrilled to have her demonstrate her love, however simply.

Many things about Cora have changed in the last year, and one of them is her feeding routine. She doesn’t often take a bottle anymore, and when she does she lets us know that she can hold it herself, thank you very much. It seems the routine of having my baby explicitly claim me as her own each night has passed.

It seemed temporary enough at the time, but her hold on me was more permanent than I had realized, and here it is months later and I’m still thinking about it. I’m still in her grip. I think I always will be, even though she’s fallen out of the habit of reminding me.

I can imagine a novel where poignant moments for the reader rise from the everyday activity of the characters. A finger-gripping infant could go into the first chapter somewhere to symbolize the dynamics of a relationship between parent and child. That grip could be used to explain why the parent works so hard, forgives so much, and loves so completely.

If the novel were careful to finish what it began, then I’m sure we’d eventually find the grown child hovering over the bed of the elderly parent. Even after so much has changed, their hands would still brush from time to time, saying I love you.