Cards (and how we play them) - Hartbig

Prologue

Roz looked down at me, smiling that soft smile and bent to her knees, extending out a hand, “Pleasure to meet you, Hannah.”

I stared at the hand as if it were a hammer, large and powerful, unsure what to do with it. The only logic that had occurred to me was to repeat earlier instances, as I reached out and cupped our hands together, folding my small digits into her fist, and stared back up at her.

She had observed our connection with a look of wonder, clearly expecting a different gesture, but seeming to accept this one. She met my eyes again, a new twinkle in her own. She squeezed back just as the agent had, and in that moment I remember liking the whole hand-holding thing more by the minute.

The agent gestured towards the house, speaking of necessities and arrangements and the like. She took my small backpack of “personal items”, heading towards the door after dropping a pat on my head.

Roz stopped at the steps, turning and sending me a look of apology, a look she would repeat so many times later in life.

“I don’t have any toys or anything like that yet, but there’s a swing up on the porch, if you like?”

I nodded to her absently, climbed up the stairs and sat myself on the aged bench, looking back up at Roz expectantly.

She lingered for a moment, nodded awkwardly as she does and then disappeared into the house.

I remember taking in the atmosphere around me. Sights and sounds so new, so different then what I knew. Kids screaming and laughing, bikes and toys littering every yard, sweet smells of flower and fruit in the air. Green everywhere.

I remember looking up and down the streets, at all the kids playing, all the houses, all the families so whole. I remember stopping at the house right across from where I sat.

And I remember the first time I saw her.

—-

Jeans and a windbreaker, as it was still early spring, then-brunette hair set in pigtails, a little girl sat on the steps, playing with a small train. Running it up and down the steps, across her legs and along her arms before starting again.

She looked up after a moment, as if she had felt my eyes on her. Not knowing what to do, I stared back. I was so used to avoiding eye contact wherever I went; when my mother took me out, it was always “head down, eyes straight”. This had been the first time I got to really look into another pair of eyes at this level. I had always assumed eyes were blue, no other color. The brown I was met with, the brown that would later become my favorite color, were almost foreign to me.

After a few seconds (hours in the eyes of a child) of simply staring each other down, the girl lifted a hand in an awkward wave. What could I have done but wave back? I didn’t know another way.

A set smile on her lips, she then turned her hand over and motioned to herself, a sign for me to approach. Sitting on the bench in confusion, I eventually got up and walked towards the girl with pigtails and brown eyes, figuring that I didn’t have many options, or really any at that point, and brown seemed like such a nice color.

Crossing the empty street, I looked behind me a few times. I was worried about the repercussions; getting tanked back by the collar and having a finger shoved in my face, paired with a “what the hell are you thinking?”.

Stopping at the first step, I fiddled with my thumb, a habit I had to have picked up from my father, as my mother never did it, even when high. I had looked at the girl expectantly, not knowing what the next step was and needing her to lead. Was there a next step?

“I’m Grace.” She spoke, her eyes boring into mine.

I nodded in acceptance. She stared at me, causing me to realize that she was expecting some sort of response.

“Hannah.” My coarse voice squeaked out, restraining from squeezing my eyes shut in embarrassment.

She smiled at me then, and it was warm and bright and unlike anything I had seen in my short life up to that point. Outstretching her other arm, she gave me another train, indicating that I was welcome to stay.

Hesitating only slightly, I remember climbing next to her and staring down at the train, and then staring at the train in her own hand, and then back.

And then back to her open hand.; and mine, and back. And the next moment, I will be grateful for, for the rest of my days.

Reaching over, I look her hand in mine. Because that was what I had learned thus far. From what I had gathered, when you meet someone new, you hold their hand.

She stopped the motion of the train across her leg, looking down at the 10 clasped chubby digits. Blinking up at me, she had stared into my eyes, confusion in her browns. She spared one last glance at the hands before looking back up at me.

Then she smiled again. That warm, kind gesture that was quickly becoming my second favorite thing that day.

She smiled and went back to her train, leaving our hands as they were, chubby and clasped together.

—-

I was 6 when my life changed forever. When I felt what love was like for the first time.

I knew what being in love was like, what it felt like, when I was 12. Or maybe I always knew what it felt like, what it was, and it had only taken me that long it realize it.

Now, at 17, on the precipice of the rest of my life, I have come to realize 3 things.

One, I felt love for the firs time when I was 6.

Two, I realized this love when I was 12.

And finally, at 17, I was at risk of losing the first thing in my life that gave my life direction, purpose. I was faced with the greatest question I could ever ask.

What is the one thing you are willing to give everything for, to fight to keep?