The touch I cherish. (Cherish, because it speaks of so much more)
The Gifts
Her hand holding onto my knee sparks a hundred memories,
pleasant, fleeting.
(Fleeting, because I see her only desire
is for help to stand from her wheelchair.)
I pull her up, my wrists under her arms, and
she wavers there, trying to take
an awkward step.
So I help her, my arm firmly
around her waist.
I feel her fragile softness as we walk,
her bare skin covered by just a shirt
interrupting the touch
of my hand on her back.
A distant memory of a cotton shift,
her lone garment hastily buttoned,
interrupts my concentration.
(Concentration, because it’s work
keeping her feet beneath her.)
Soon I ask,
“Are you ready to sit down?”
“Yes,” she answers, but makes no move
toward the chair.
I walk her back, and she confronts it,
deciding how to do what’s next.
With my hands on her shoulders, I start a dance
I’ve learned from her aides.
“Just turn toward me.
One more step. Just one more.”
I face her now, and she embraces my waist,
her full figure pressed against mine.
Instinctively, I return her hug.
(Her only instinct is not to fall.)
I move her hand, supple and unsure, behind her,
toward the handle of her chair.
How many times have I sought her palm and felt its touch?
But now the only release I seek is
unlocking her knees so she’ll sink back to safety.
(Safety, not pleasure, is today’s pursuit.)
Finally, she’s seated. I pat her hand
and offer it a book to hold while I wheel her toward dinner.
Soon her fingers pick up potato salad and chicken,
and I swab them clean
between bites.
I wonder what we two would have thought
fifty years ago,
to see this picture: a failing woman and her faltering partner
engaged in something less than passion,
two bodies bereft of vigor.
One of them functions with reflexes damaged
by an unstoppable enemy.
The other pushes memories aside
to help her take up the tasks she must tackle today:
Stand. Sit. Swallow.
Would we call it sad, this survival scene with two people
who once recklessly pledged their love for each other?
Or would we see beauty in the gratitude that gives her
what she needs now?
(Gratitude, because time and again she
gave herself to him.)