Fierce

He took my hand, leading me around the cups of beer, the elbows and knees beneath the fireworks and symphonic bursts of the pyrotechnical show at Montjüic fountain, and I would have gladly had our knuckles weld. I wanted to loose my hair in wisps of grape-vine tendrils when, later, he stretched his left arm out under my pillow.
He used to say that he was the one who gave the final push when Julia was born, pulled out of me with suction cups and black-eye forceps (unlike her sister, who was reaped with a scalpel).
Now I want to grow tentacle fingers and place them –airtight- on the sleekly polished backs of my girls and so guide them past my stumbling blocks.
I have no tentacles, no tendrils, no welded knuckles, so I pull at the heartstrings I left dangling behind me on my long wanderings, to reel in the friend who croaks back, crouched down in his own homegrown jungle camouflage.
I form fierce attachments.