Refugees of Reason

These Soft Hands

These hands
are not the hands that I remember;

smooth and soft
like that of a micro surgeon's;

the kind that push
uncomfortable instruments up one's urethra.

This cinder block building
with its pealing paint and its tiny shared rooms,

is home now,
though dad believes he is in a hospital.

Some days
he believes he is here to visit mom;

it matters little to dad,
but it appears it matters to my aging sensibility;

this aged man living
in an aging, chronically declining — building,

moves me
and reminds me of my own mortality.

Dad holds his sleeve button
between his polished thumb and forefinger,

motionless, just staring,
not like a child — a child would be more inquisitive

(a child,
would fumble with it more, manipulate it);

instead dad sits staring
motionless. What is it he is thinking? He is

more like an old cat
staring at the television, familiar, but not understanding.

These hands
used to be rough and raspy, callused and cut

(when very young
I would sit on his lap at night and ask about each blemish

as I turned his hand
back and forth in my two puny little ones);

these hands would smash
against machinery, changing oil, tightening bolts,

removing a broken shoe
from the cultivator and replace it with one new

(I know,
because I used to tag along and watch).

The cold molded these hands
to the arthritic bends and swollen knuckles of today;

and these hands wiped
tears from the cheeks of a mother, his wife, and their sons

and comforted babies
when strong prairie winds forced a family to the cellar.

They stroked the dog's
black fur every day on the doorstep before leaving

for long days
pounding along on a dusty, open tractor

returning late,
stroking that black fur again, on the front step.

But always strong, firm,
these hands were wise and knew always what to do,

— or so I thought
when I was a boy and my hands were soft.

Now dad's hands are taunt,
smooth and stiff with age – and soft, these days;

they know not
what to do with that confounded button,

so I'll do it for him;
I'll button his sleeve, and he'll notice I'm here;

he'll recognize me,
he always does, and extend a smooth, soft hand to shake mine.

~gtk