A Hand to Hold
From the Chicago Diaries
I met Laura Semenzin in Akron, Ohio, when she was still Laura Gilbert in the late 1980s. She has a perpetual smile—one that fills her face, and somehow, a room. It’s the kind of smile that makes you smile back without even trying.
Laura moved to Chicago sometime after we lost touch. We reconnected on Facebook just before I moved there in 2010. In five years, I’ve seen her three times: once for coffee in Evanston, once at her home in Itasca, and once for dinner in the city with her and her husband.
I woke up Saturday to sun and temperatures forecast in the 70s—the first agreeable day this spring. I wanted to ride my bike. I texted Laura to see if she’d be at Busse Woods, a multi-trail bike path intersecting lakes and natural preserves, including a large expanse of free-roaming elk in the aptly named Chicago suburb Elk Grove. I knew she trained there for the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer.
Are you walking Busse today? Was thinking of heading out there.
I am! Meeting my walking partner at seven for one loop. I got horrible blisters last week… We should be doing 17!
How long is a loop?
7.5
I’ll take my bike and look for you.
“Great! We walk counterclockwise from the elk.
It was 6:30 a.m. I still needed to feed and walk Jake and take a shower—not to get clean, but to wake up. There’s something about water hitting your skin that pings adrenaline.
I figured I had time. If I got there by 7:30 and rode counterclockwise from the elk, I’d catch her about halfway through the loop. When I saw who I thought was Laura from behind, I called out, “Ohio guy announcing his passing.” We’ve both complained that people in Illinois don’t warn when they pass on bikes. Rude.
I dismounted and walked with Laura and her friend for about a mile. We talked easily. I told her that Karen had accepted a job out of state and that we’d be leaving Chicago. We said we’d meet again. Laura said we’d probably see more of each other once I was gone. I knew what she meant, though I wasn’t sure it was true.
As we walked, we talked. Inevitably, we talked about the past. It’s what we have. I hope we have a future. Laura is generous, kind, and thoughtful—but not a pushover. Cross her on something that matters. You’ll find out.
About half a mile in, Laura reached for my hand. My left in her right. My other hand on the bike. It caught me off guard. I wasn’t sure why we were holding hands, but I didn’t pull away. I realized how long it had been. How much I’d closed myself off from something that simple. It felt both natural and unfamiliar at once.
At some point, Laura suggested I ride on while she and her friend continued walking. It was a seamless transition.
As I biked, I wondered when I’d last held someone’s hand. Then I remembered pedaling at 13 miles per hour.
It was at a photography exhibit at the Cleveland Print Room, featuring Angelo Meredino, who documented his wife Jennifer’s battle with breast cancer. Laura is a close friend of his. They both began in Akron.
Angelo’s photographs in My Wife’s Fight With Breast Cancer photo documentary are direct and unguarded. Raw too. You won’t look away.
As I studied his extraordinary images, I noticed him across the room, recognizing him from photos online. I wanted to say something but hesitated. He wasn’t just another artist at his own show. He’d lived what he was showing. What could I impart that was meaningful, I wondered.
My friend Arnold, who co-curated the exhibit, must have noticed. He asked if I wanted to meet him. I said yes.
I introduced myself and mentioned Laura. When we shook hands, I put my left hand atop our connected right hands, and he placed his left hand on top of that bundle of hands.
We stood like that and talked for fifteen minutes, maybe more—about his work, his wife, and love. Neither of us let go. It wasn’t awkward. It felt easy and grounded.
At one point, I told him I hoped he would find a way to give that kind of love again—not just for himself, but for someone else fortunate enough to receive it. Then I worried my sentiment might have been too much.
He told me that he and his Jen had talked about that before she died. She encouraged it.
Of course she did.
As I rode through Busse Woods, I thought about that—about Laura reaching for my hand, about standing there with his. How rare it is, and how easy it could be. That life might just be that simple. If it isn’t, it should be.
If it isn’t for you, ask for a hand.