Hands

HANDS

 

She couldn’t stop thinking

About hands

 

At first it was his hands

And her inability to remember

Their look

Texture

 

     The way they felt

     As they tousled her hair

     After he touched his lips

     To the top of her head

 

          The warmth of them

          Cupping her breast

          Thumb teasing nipple

          Gentling her into sensuality

 

               Their comforting circular rhythm

               Easing her into sleep

               On nights her mind

               Roared and raced

 

Conversely she could never forget

How cold and heavy they were

When she lifted them to her lips 

For one last kiss

 

The hands of a clock

Winding down

As the mechanism of her life

Slowed

Once simple tasks

Now as daunting as Everest

 

Her own hands

Gripping the handles 

Of her walking frame

Tenaciously gouging 

Independence

From an uncooperative body

 

Hands of strangers

Tentatively offered

Gratefully accepted

As she struggled

With the minutiae of life

In public places

 

The hands of family and friends

Reaching out

Giving comfort and assistance

Wrapped around the handles of her wheelchair

Pushing her lovingly

Back into the gallery and theatre of life

 

Tricia 03/2012