Taking My Life in My Hands

In one hand, I hold hurt:

the loss of my dearest husband

into his death; the pain

of a grown son become an enemy;

various cats who used to be;

particular dogs who were mighty.

I hold my mother

who named me after a fragrant herb,

telling herself she was naming me

for a pretty actress — symbolic

of love and misunderstanding

as we never quite connected ... except deep.

I hold the stepmother

who fed me poison (no, not literally,

though she'd have liked to

and to force it personally down my throat);

the father who betrayed

me and my little brother into her keeping.

This is the hand that handles

the housework, the food,

the weeding and pruning,

the careful allocation of the money;

the hand that signed divorce papers — twice 
and afterwards dried my eyes.

In the other hand, the healing hand, I hold

memories of happiness

with my late husband, and with the others;

the conjured-up touch of their skin.

I hold my parents in this one too,

when they were young, when they were glad.

I hold, in this hand, my stepfather's hand

who was a friend, and all the hands

of all my friends. And I hold the hands

of my children, back before one let go.

I feel the fur of the remembered 
cats and dogs, and the cat I still have.

Here in the healing hand is a map

of the green Caldera I live in (20 years now)

its mountains, rivers and ocean.

I hold, too, the island

where I grew up — its mountains and rivers

and wild ocean. I even hold an old city.

My hands themselves are old.

The backs are freckled with liver spots

and the veins have turned into strings.

But the palms are rosy and firm,

still smooth-skinned, still plump. These hands

have a clean smell and a good grip.

I stand poised, one foot on a rock

and one dipping into the water.

I am almost dancing. The wind

flirts with my skirt. The sky is a gentle blue

like the water; the clouds are fluffy soft.

There are golden flowers, green grass.

From the cups of my hands pour streams

of living water. The streams combine.

The hurts I hold are soothed and healed,

just as the sweet things I hold are defined

by certain sharp edges. I find a precarious

balance, and spread my red wings wide.

Inspired by an exercise in Wingbeats

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‘Six Word Saturday’ emanates from Call Me Cate’s blog, Show My Face. To read her and other people’s ‘Six Word Saturday’ posts, click the icon.

Also shared at Poets United's Poetry Pantry #258