They are the tired ones who welcome my body. I am the only one who fits them. Two weary hands with thick knuckles and calloused palms like leather. Two who were not meant to be here but are here. Two threadbare paws forced into the world. From oceans away, I can feel them, but the hands work and forget their humble start.
Their past is tarnished. They shove sour mementos back under the table. They scream and they run and they feel how mother’s fists hit like hammers and they give a salty tear and then go back to slaving. This is how they forget.
Lest the hands forget their beaten youth, they’d heal up so delicately, but no longer be scribbled with the riveting chapters of life. Forget, forget, forget while I am blind to the old vignette. They give.
When I am too overwhelmed and too weary to forget, when I am a flake in a blizzard, then it is I remember the hands. When there is nothing left to hold on this earth. Two who loved despite a lack of. Two who remember and do not forget to remember. Two whose only reason is to give and give and give.