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.
Belated Words 