Hands

Flailing, fluttering directing the scene, emphasizing words, building a vision in sign. You stretch your arm across the table and I grab onto your hand, smooth and soft, pampered. Each nail trim and clean. The lines and creases leading to the pond in your palm, where you pretend to spit to form a reservoir, which makes the story you're telling, a joke, that lets me laugh each time I hear it, and I've heard it 100 times in 28 years. The touch remains alive, though you're dead. The softness, a memory. The tenderness, a dimple on my heart. A movement, memorized and registered in some private place. When walking through life, details are ignored, but caught by the imagination until needed. I bend and bring your hand to my lips. a male action, this woman has used often, to express her love, her gratitude for your love, of her. The contact of our palms touching, fingers intermingled, entwined, united as we walk or sit; this action will always define how deeply, one simple act, can spell love, and bring comfort, even though you're gone.