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She couldn’t stop thinking
About hands
At first it was his hands
And her inability to remember
Their look
     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
Once simple tasks
Now as daunting as Everest
Her own hands
Gripping the handles 
Of her walking frame
Tenaciously gouging 
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