holding hands

Today I was walking down the street and I passed an old man with a cane, standing against a wall. He murmured something in Spanish, and half a block later I realized he had asked me if I would accompany him down the street. I looked behind me and he was still standing there, speaking quietly, streams of people walking past. I turned around, asked him if needed help, and offered him my arm.

We walked together, ever so slowly; me shortening my steps to match his rhythm of shuffle-shuffle-pause. Small cracks were canyons, slight raises were mountain tops. The old man, his cane, and me.

I learned that he is eighty-four and has lived in Buenos Aires his entire life. He learned that I live nearby. Aside from those small details, we didn't say much; just shuffled along together for a block and a half in the warm afternoon sunlight.

Partway through our walk I told him he could take my hand instead of resting it on my forearm. He placed his worn fingers in mine and held on tight. One rough, spotted hand in one small and soft.

We arrived where he needed to be, and he thanked me as he slid himself against another wall on another corner. I asked if he wanted me to wait with him, but he declined. He continued holding my hand as he thanked me and kissed the side of my face. One pair of wise lips gracing one cheek with much to learn.

As I walked away I could still feel the heat and presence of his hand in mine; the weight of our unspoken words in my palm.

His was the first hand I'd held in four months.