HoldingHands Thebest thing to hold on to is each other. Anonymous Iwas sleeping late. I had just published the first issue of my local newspaper, Atlanta 30306 , and was recovering from three all-nighters earlier in the month.The phone rang. Thecall was from either a brother or a sister. I don't remember which now. My dadhad been walking down the hallway at the Northside YMCA on Roswell Road, goingto his daily swimming aerobics class, when he had a massive stroke. Idrove quickly to Piedmont Hospital and ran into the emergency room. I thoughtabout how Dad had cared for me there through broken bones, an appendectomy andso on. Now, I was going to see him. Ifound him in a room, unconscious. It was so quiet. I just stood by his side,helplessly. A nurse I hadn't seen standing in the corner told me I could touchhim. Touchhim? I thought. How? I looked at his hands. I remembered grasping them inhandshakes for years. I remembered how later, after our family discoveredaffection, hugging him, and even in recent years, kissing him. But I had nomemory of ever just holding his hand, as a child might grab a parent's hand tocross the street. Iplaced his hand in mine and just held it. It felt so large; bony, yet soft. Whyhave I never done this before? I thought. Was it my insecurities or his? Perhapsboth. It was the last time I touched my father. He never regained consciousnessand died later that evening. Irevisit that image often and have drawn much comfort from remembering thatsimple act of holding hands with my dad during the last hours of his life. Aseemingly small gesture, but one that allows two people to connect so quickly,so closely. Myown eleven-year-old son knows this and is, thankfully, not bound by theinhibitions of earlier generations. One time, after my dad's death, I waswalking in a mall with him and his cousin of the same age. His cousin asked himwhy he was holding my hand. He said nothing, but quickly released my grasp. Thatwas it, I thought. The defining moment. Even though I had felt a littleself-conscious holding his hand there in the mall, I knew I would miss his touchmore than he would ever know. Yet, a few weeks later during another weekendtogether, he quietly slipped his hand in mine. I felt connected again. Thissummer in Paris, we walked along the Seine as I led him and histhirteen-year-old sister to cathedrals and museums. He grabbed my hand, and wewalked together for several blocks. My daughter, who had stopped holding my handat age nine or ten, sped up and looked over at the clasp. I knew she was goingto say something as only a sister, much too cool for such a display, would. Thenshe caught my eye and my smile. Uncharacteristically, she retreated and saidnothing. Andso we continued along the riverbank, a family of three, she comfortable in herdetachment, my son content with his innate instinct to connect with others, andme, somewhere in between. Sometimes,we have a choice of when to let go. Sometimes, we don't. Chris Schroder ¬1996,1998 Chris Schroder. All rights reserved. Reprinted from Chicken Soup for theFather's Soul, by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Jeff Aubery, Mark Donnelly,Chrissy Donnelly; ¬ 2001. Excerpted from Chicken Soup for the Father's Soul: 101 Stories to Open the Hearts and Rekindle the Spirits of Fathers by Jack L. Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Jeff Aubery, Mark Donnelly, Chrissy Donnelly All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.