Always

I love holding your hand. It makes me feel like I'm fifteen again and the world is full of so much promise. It brings me right back to the cool summer air, sweet with the smell of night-blooming jasmine and chaparral like licorice.

I think of how I used to sneak out of a sleeping house and meet up with high school friends. We would run amuck Malibu's beaches into damp and dark hours, hiding in the long shadows when patrol cars would roll by. The seaweed stretched along the sand in wretched fingers had a distinctive salty presence. It threatened to trip our restless feet, so we danced around its tangles. The yellow moon suggested endless summer and never disappointed. 

We somehow always managed to lose our shoes, but we didn't care because barefoot was better. It reminded us that we were young and free and without heavy cares- beyond the nagging thought of how we might sneak back into our respective houses without being discovered by parents who checked for empty beds. 

I was always happy to be running around with my friends, finding shenanigans and seeking silliness. Consequence didn't exist. There was always some level of risk involved, but I was comforted by the warmth and familiar certainty in the back of my mind that everything was going to be okay, regardless. Somehow, I knew I was going to be okay. It was always an adventure.

That's what holding your hand feels like to me.