These are the hands of the man

who cares for my youngest son.

My former suicidal 7 year old.

My newly 8 year old.

The hands belong to Mark.

Mark sees Ezra every Thursday.

Mark and Ezra play and Ezra talks to Mark.

Ezra says things like:

“I’m glad everyone is treating me normal now, only I’m not normal cause I don’t have a dad. and

“When my mom cries I don’t like it. And I do cause she is relieved and looks lighter when she is done.”

Ezra tells Mark about the

ace bandage.

The one he had me wrap around his head one morning.

The one he wore to school and kept on all day.

He tells Mark he wanted his friends, his other 7 and 8 year old friends, to remember that his dad’s death still hurt. 

These are the hands of the man

who offers me insider glimpses into the inner emotional life

of my son.

These are the hands of a man who is showing me that not only will my son survive this, he will thrive.

These are the hands of hope.