My hand in yours is scraped and bleeding, my knees are shaky, and my face is streaked with tears. This ledge we’re standing on is rocky and you’ve got, bruises on your shins, cuts on your feet. The climb has been steep and we are stronger than we believed, but I won’t pretend that your scrapes, or mine, are only from the sharp edges of stone.
Sometimes when I am sore and exhausted from the climb, I push and struggle on a narrow ledge with not enough room. Sometimes in my fear, I bump you, jostle, and bruise. Sometimes in your hesitation you flail and I am winded by the impact of your nearness. Often we trip over each other’s feet.
We are not the type to find the easy path. We cannot be satisfied unless we are toes over the edge, wind in our face, hearts pounding with the possibility of flight. I get it. I am not unwilling to wear your blood and share your bruises, just don’t let go of my hand?
Hold on to me, and I will hold onto you. We may be unsteady, but whether we fall or fly, I can’t bear the thought of doing it without you.