The first memory I have of holding my father's hand for the first time was as I walked alongside him on a path bordered by hedgerows in bloom and white daisies. Birdsong. My father's hand feels big and comfortable like a cavernous eiderdown as it wraps itself around my tiny white hand. We do not speak as we walk and I do not care if we do or not. His hand in mine communicates much more than words. Now and then I feel that he wants to release me but I cling a little more, anxious, fearful of being exposed. This is the first memory I have of holding my father's hand.
The last time I held my father's hand it felt cold and stiff. Ice fragments fell and shattered around me, my own hand hot and clammy.
First time. Last time.
Hedgerows, daisies and ice.