by Michelle N. Broughton

Created on: March 21, 2008

The Hands of Time

He is born.
Not knowing the meaning of anger, his hand forms a fist.
Unlined, unmarked by time,
the hand opens, reaching for life.

Dirty, its heel skinned,
a boy's hand grasps the bat,
holding it with determination.
The fingers open and close
getting a better hold - skin to wood.

"Tag! You're it!"
The hand brushes the shoulder of his friend,
a touch familiar, yet taunting.

Ragged nails adorn the fingers;
a splinter from the bat makes itself known.

His hand reaches for the parchment,
knowing the comfort of high school is behind.
Yet, the damp anticipation in its palm
aches for the bright future of college.
The hand will hold a scalpel one day.

Another paper rests in his hand.
The same day, it grasps the medical degree,
it clutches orders for boot camp to his chest.
His hand shakes with fear of the unknown
and pride in traveling to serve his country.

The day before release from the U.S. Army,
the hand grasps hers before slipping the
engagement ring into place.
Throbbing with joy at her presence,
his hand pulls her close; a kiss seals the promise.

Trembling with delight, the hand presses
against the nursery glass, pointing out
the new baby to Gramps.
Willing itself to be firm, but gentle,
it reaches to hold the child.

Polished, manicured hands hold the tools
with a master's touch, cutting, clipping,
sponging and sewing.
The child's ragged nails and scrapes
are a thing of youthful dreams.

Arthritis twists the once glorious hands
into throbbing knots of pain.
His fingers seek reassurance of her presence,
clutching her hand to his heart.
With a final weak touch, his hand falls to his chest.

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