The old man’s hand
has skin like tissue paper.
I hold it while he works to breathe.
His fingers are still plump.
I worry I might bruise them,
loosen my grip.
Once a mother held this hand,
new and curling.
Small boy, young man,
threw a ball, drove a car and
drove and drove and drove.
He grabs my hand with his.
Gentle father,
kindly husband,
ordinary man
whose hand I hold.
This hand solved jumbles,
crosswords, jigsaws;
shoveled snow and
served me cake.
He drops my hand,
breathes hard and slow.