My Father’s Hands
They are too big now, resting, as they do, at the end of too-thin arms.
At first, the thumb rubs across my knuckles. The grasp firm.
Then, as the too-fast breaths come, there is just the tenderest swell and ease of fingers—unseen but felt. Loose but warm.
Then, a coolness, a stillness. And the nails, shaped as mine, a cerulean blue. Pale as shadows in a cloudy sea.
Long Gone, Not Gone
I walk in the gardens of my childhood.
Gossamer shadows pace the woods; husky voices echo in the bluejay’s rusty-swing call.
Long gone, not gone.
He holds out only his thumbs for me to grasp, to be lifted up and swung.
So proud of his strength, we were.
Long gone, not gone.
As the sun declines, I let my small self free fall inside of me, to be caught and cradled by my grown self.
Long gone, not gone.
What Breaks the Heart?
Not a smile, or a sob, but the stair on which we sat to tie our soon-mudded boots. The counter, noisy with past groceries, and that corner table where we leant and laid our too-hot teas, only to find them grown cold; forgotten with chatter.
Why does the inanimate call forth such tears?
Then, life reaches for us with its gently insistent tendrils. The waggling leaves beckon in a low breeze, and the joyful tangle of clouds is undiminished, even as they fray.
And our small selves are free to wander forth again. Unsheltered. Invulnerable.
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image: Michelle_Raponi