Hands

A tiny hat upon a newborn boy’s head,
His hospital bracelet tight as a bear hug around his wrist.

A weathered blanket trailing behind him,
His thumb wedged between his lips.

A robin’s egg from a fallen tree,
His palms cupping it protectively.

A ripped pair of jeans hanging low on his hips,
His fingers hooked through the belt loops.

A sand castle standing tall,
His hand in hers as they admire their work.

A diamond ring tucked in his pocket,
His fingers fumbling as he gets down on one knee.

A wife-to-be walking wordlessly with poise,
Her fists clenched confidently around her bouquet.

A year gone by,
His hand still intertwined with hers.

A tiny hat upon a newborn boy’s head,
His hospital bracelet tight as a bear hug around his wrist.

A daddy now, he holds his son,
His patting palm unsure on the baby’s back.

A sand bucket tossed into the trunk,
His hands grasped tightly on the steering wheel.

A beach vacation with their little boy,
His camera clicks, fossilizing a fragment of time.

A wave crashes on the shore, washing in seashells, erasing footprints,
His watch reads noon; the sun is high.

A car for their son’s sixteenth birthday,
His palm patting the hood.


A son home for the holidays,
His new daughter-in-law’s handshake firm.

A tiny hat upon a newborn boy’s head,
His hospital bracelet tight as a bear hug around his wrist.

A grandpa now,
His arms cradling the infant lovingly.

A school play,
His grandson waving from the stage.

A grandson who has grown up too,
His fingers flip through the photo album, reminiscing.

A man who knows he has gotten old,
His weathered, blue-veined hands tremble with truth.

A day like any other,
His fingers trace the outlines of clouds one last time.

An end to every story,
His last salute goodbye.