I used to fit in the palm of your hand.
Your hand was never closed, nor open;
your fingers gently cradled me.
I would watch as
those same fingers folded paper and created
then they’d pick me up,
and cradle me again.
Over time those same fingers
became scored and finely sliced
frayed and forever marked,
diamond tipped and cold hardness plated
they became stiffer
and the cradle shook.
I could only watch
as the creaking fingers folded corners
and lines with
less precision than before.
I still fitted in the palm of your hand
but the fingers – still, neither closed,
nor open –
seemed less voluntary in every choice.
On one of the last days
I reached out and closed my hand
around your rough, scarred thumb.
My hand was dwarfed in the massiveness:
You – giant; weary, shaking.
Me – in the palm of your hand.
For the first time, I looked into your eyes;
You were there, but tired. You shook,
The tremor shook my stupour,
as a small tear left the corner of an eye.
And so I took you in the palm of my hand;
neither closed, nor open,
my fingers gently cradle you.