working hands

I trace the brawn of you like embroidery, squeeze the sculpt through your robe.

.

When I massage your bare feet, I tap into you a rough draft of your eulogy.
I outlive everything,
you know.

.

I outlive everything I know.

.

The trophies in your cabinet still as you rest.
The spotlights that love you dim as you sleep.

.

Like every masterpiece that has ever moved me, I know I will not be the only one who remembers you.

.

But as I listen to breath turn to snore—
I think I might be the only one
who wants to remember you like this:

.

Still and soft, creating nothing.
Your Achilles, so trustful
in my — no, in any—
small hands.

.

From my “symptoms series” based on notes from or to my doctors. This one based off “I worry about what happens when my hands are no longer strong”