I held my father’s hand once more last night, but only in a dream. 

I did not see his face or hear his voice or recognize a nod, but his

ever-gentleness stood to sooth the unease of muddled senses.

 

Almost thirty quick years have gone since I stood by his bed.

Did I, at first, hold his hand? A white cloth, folded in half,

lay over his mouth for moisture; rare tears traced crow’s-feet

to his pillow and I, new to dying, wondered if he cried from fear. 

But through the muffling wetness, struggling not to sob,

“Your mother…”  And then I understood, “I will take care of her.”

I promised; only then…I remember, now…did I take his hand.

 

The hand I held last night was not that of thirty years before;

his hands, in life, had the square bluntness of his days of labor.

Always, he carried a pocketknife to turn the grease and grit

from beneath his nails into minute, curled strings of grime.

The hand I held in my dream was only his because I knew

and not recognition by touch; the hand I held was feminine,

covered with the sheltered, thin skin of one needing protection.

 

I’ve pondered the paradox for days, wondering why the hand

was his, but not; time could not have altered to such extreme,

a touch etched in memory.  Believing only in our faulty minds,

I can only conclude that I, so desiring that my father

might know I have kept my promise, conjured a dream,

a visitation; the hand I knew as his is my mother’s I hold today.

This is new, written over a couple of days and based on a real dream.  I tend to overwork things until I have removed any sense of freshness and spontaneity which they might have contained, so, I’m trying to work on that. Only within the last couple of years have I experienced dreams about real people.  This is new for me; aging not only changes our bodies but our perceptions and, apparently, our subconscious musings.