I always loved his hands
Especially in the later years —
Holding and being held.
“Lefty” they called him when
young at handball and stickball in Bronx alleys;
Or when bowling as long as I
could remember.
Though short were the days
with classroom-rapped knuckles
for writing in that sinister way,
Later he made it right
Reading the world in
Newspapers, edition upon folded edition,
Drinking in sports’ stats and movie stars
With his daily milk.
I always loved his hands.
Daily they carved out a life
from beef or fish or plentiful poultry
— sometimes lean game
filled the freezer —
He was better than the best for butchers.
And in these special later years
He is not shy or ashamed.
Long we can talk,
his trade-worn fingers
intertwined with mine
as our lives have been.
He is not afraid to tell
me his feelings:
The puzzlements at the pain,
The gentle frustration
when the morning visit,
phone call
or bacon and eggs
Fade faster than the food’s aroma.
Or the brief anguish
When hand-to-pocket finds
no dollars
For paying the barber
I’ve taken him to.
And when I ask him
if his days are
monotonous, he says:
“This is my life now —
You have to be patient.
I have no reason to complain,
I’ve led a full life.”
And I am edified,
hoping those spiritual
genes have been
handed on . . .
Perhaps most of all
He has revealing hands:
They show me the parental pain
of letting go
What he most wants to
keep close.
How to keep letting go
While always receiving back
with gracious gratitude
— echoed in his lips —
Offering his hands when
needed or wanted
(“a gentleman” the ladies call him).
Through it all
One Lord, one ring
We’ve shared, though diverse
nuptial vows.
From his hand and once-broken heart
I’ve worn that band these many years
in hope of his
fidelity.
I always loved his hands
Especially in the later years —
Holding and being held.
His Hands
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