To My Parents
My hands look like yours as they age.
The knobs of knuckles and wrists,
the veins threading into themselves,
the familiar landscapes of skin.
A childhood spent reaching for them,
finding comfort in their long fingers
that cradled me the way trees did.
My mind and legs are also yours,
as is their dialogue –
the neurotic generator behind our eyes
pushing us relentlessly from place to place.
Long runs through the woods.
A crowded datebook. Plane tickets.
We worry, we move. Everything spins
as we tumble forward.
I remember your shelter
when I look into my hands.
But there is comfort there that I have made
in the void of night, in deep wandering.
There is a peace I have found in walking,
in stopping altogether. A stillness
deeper than these fears.
Nothing you gave me was broken.
I wish I could show you –
the home of myself I am making
has your handsewn curtains,
your music floating through.
There is no end, only change,
aging hands, new growth.
Say it to yourself when the night
becomes too big. We are not broken.
We are not broken. Look at our hands, our shelters that move.
The comfort only you could give me
when I was small – give it to yourself.
We are not broken.