Your Hands

my hand rests fingers curved against the white page. the skin is dry, divided into cells. small folds surround my knuckles. my veins are a grey-green path criss-crossing my hand. my hand. so like the hand that caressed my brow, or smoothed the sheet, that wiped my childhood tears and comforted by touch, like the hand that soothed my child with gentle strokes. When we last talked together your hand relaxed against the table top, sallow skin too loose for the bones within. we talked about our hands- mine becoming yours, yours became your mother's, gaunt, dry, gnarl-jointed. The rings you couldn't wear for years were fitted on your hand, a cold, still hand. lying motionless. at peace. my hand rests, fingers curved, against the white page. I see your hand there, against the satin sheet.