You Are Holding My Hand
By V. Teles
We arrive in a small town after a long car trip. The door opens. We step out, but I stay close to the car.
My heart is racing. There are a lot of people around.
Everyone is anxious. They seem worried about something.
It must be something scary. I am afraid, although I don’t know what is happening.
I stay still.
Standing in a dusty street, I lean back against the car. It is the only place around here that feels safe to me.
“What is going on over there?” I ask myself.
I can barely see anything.
Then I realize people are looking up in the direction of a house where smoke is coming out.
“We heard an explosion earlier,” someone says in a timid, shaky voice.
I have never smelled something like this before. The air is heavy. The house doesn’t look like a house anymore.
“What will happen me?” I ask myself in fear.
Can someone hold my hand? Please.
I can’t see my mother anymore.
My father is distancing himself from the car, from me too. But I can still see him from here.
My sister is close to me, shaking with fear. She looks lost and sad.
The fear doesn’t make my body shake like it does my little sister’s.
I wonder what is going to happen to us.
All I want is a warm hand to hold on to. I want to feel safe.
In silent despair, I stand by the car waiting for our parents to come back.
I don’t want to stay here and I can’t go anywhere.
I can only hold my sister’s hand to ease her fear.
By doing so, I feel a warm hand holding mine.