I stopped at the top of the stairs
to wait for him
as he shuffled out of his bedroom,
sleepy-eyed and not yet steady.
He took the old walnut railing
with his left hand
as we walked next to each other
towards breakfast and the day.
His right hand reached into mine,
gentle and soft,
warm from his blanketed slumber.
He’s almost eight years old, I thought,
in fear of the day
when he won’t slip so easily
into sharing his space
or his hand
I tried to tread carefully as we went
so as not to disturb our clasp,
wishing the stairs might go on forever,
a father and his boy.