Cold Hands

February 25, 2011
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Emotions twist and solidify, corrupting and purifying my soul


Nothing is right, made worse by the fact that nothing is wrong

Already, I had tired-would life always be this way?

The consistant arc of grief, of terrible sorrow, of hopeless resolution

Death tends to make me this cold.

My body is quaking, trembling, as I slowly approach the open casket

I see him inside, so peaceful, so pure

I remember the way he touched my life, his stoic nature, his warmth, the calming resonance of his voice

Tears pooled and together succeded in the effort of overflowing my eyes and rolling down my cheeks

My gaze shifted when looking at the familiar creases in his slack face became too painful

I looked at his hands, those hands that had held me when I was an infant; I could still remember their heat, the rough feel and the tender grip

I didn't think it through when I should have-all I could think of was the desperate urge for one more touch before he was only dirt beneath my feet.

I reached out, stroked my fingertips across his clasped hands

And abruptly drew my hands back as though I'd been burned

Not right, not natural, wrong wrong wrong

Words spiraled in a silent, screaming castastrophe that beat across my skull and my heart

His hands, so cold, so hard and unbreathing

It came to me, a sudden life-altering realization

My grandpa was dead, his hands were cold, and he was going to be dead no matter how much I pretended the past two weeks had never happened

His hands were so cold, I think they permanately froze my heart

I miss his warmth

I miss warmth

Where did the warmth go?





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