Poem: Hands

Hands

By Fujiko Hotta
QuailBellMagazine.com

Her hands and legs are warm
It’ s unusual for her
It makes me uneasy

​I take her hand and say my name
She squeezes my hand back
I am surprised at her power
The tips of her nails leave a slight pain in my palm
 
She weakly stretches her arm in the air
as if she is trying to catch something
When she opens her eyes, I call her, “mother”
She looks at something, not me
 
I call her whenever she opens her eyes, “mother”
No response
Her eyes seem glazed
When a caregiver calls her by her first name,
surprisingly, she answers with a clear voice, “yes”
 
I try to give her a spoonful of water
She refuses it and closes her lips
She is dozing
Sometimes she moves her fingers
like she’s tapping out a rhythm

I sit down on her bed
I clean her ears with cotton swabs
I clip her nails carefully
I rub body lotion on her arms and legs
Her skin is like tissue paper
 
I take her hand and say see you soon
She does not squeeze my hand back
I pat her hand twice
I leave the room with uncertain fears