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HandsBy 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 CommentsComments are closed.
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