Holding on, letting go
Sometimes my dad lifts me on to his shoulders,
and I ride along, sitting up there.
He holds on to my feet, and I hold on to the top of his head,
and I get a good view of everything.
One time he was talking to my mum about stuff –
attachment, and the importance of letting go,
and freedom from views and other boring things,
but they seemed to really like it all.
He got so carried away he started to wave his arms around.
When I saw them waving in front of me,
I knew they couldn’t be doing their proper job,
which was holding on to me, and keeping me safe.
He’d let go all right – he’d let go of me.
For some reason this made me hold on much tighter:
I grabbed his hair with one hand,
wrapped my other arm round his face at eye level,
and tightened my legs round his throat
That brought him back to the present moment.
He stopped walking, and he couldn’t really talk.
He got hold of my legs again and I relaxed a little bit.
My mum came and lifted me down to the ground.
I saw her give my dad a hard stare.
We finished our outing with me walking between them,
holding them both by the hand. I like that.