Another series I’ve done parts of for years: I’m Getting Older. Here’s another older body part.
My hands are different hands.
They’re my father’s hands now.
We were not very much a like. He
was Talmudic, reasoned, cautious
and careful. He should have been
a rabbi someone who learned
he knew how to ballroom dance
could play piano and classical violin
he did not go for walks did not go
outside unless he had a good reason
work being a good reason he did not
fix anything ever or cook except for eggs
did not ever call anyone just to chat he did not
chat though he did discuss he’d often dance
with my mother on the red linoleum floor
in our peculiar kitchen, a kitchen that had avocado pits
sprouting on the indoor window sill, always
they were my mother’s he had a cautious body too
hesitant, dressed in black all his shirts were white
except for one light yellow that my mother chose
and he wore once I remember his hands they were
white and looked as though they’d held many pencils
and many pens and all of a sudden I have those hands now.