I can't stop my fingers from trembling.
Hold them straight, flat, in front of my face
and watch them dance out of rhythm.
And I'm not sure why--I can only think of
my grandmother's face, peering out to mine
with a half-tragic smile.
And I remember how bony her fingers felt.
Her skin felt like latex gloves, blue from
arteries, pressing out to become
mountain ridges all over her hands.
I remember that her hands trembled too--
we would joke about it, and when we sat together
on her too-big bed, I would
curl her cold hands into my own
and press it deep within my heart
in hopes of warming what could not be warmed
and saving what I could not save.
I was stupid then--I didn't know
when to stop. When the doctors talked of
taking her feet, I blinked and when she lay
strapped, her blood rushing through machines,
I hid away. I couldn't even watch her as she pricked
her paperthin fingers before every meal.
To me, she was my future and I could see my reflection
in her rosy cheeks and wrinkled face full of laughter.
Even our names matched, and when she called my name,
her eyes turned tender and she would squeeze my hand
softly. For that short second, I could feel her fingers
warming up in mine...
And now fog wheels and dives into the valley where she
lies. It is green and poppies and mustard dot the hillsides
where she used to roam. Above her is a bouquet of
plastic flowers, roses just placed on her anniversary.
Below her is her husband.
And sometimes I wonder, deep in warm earth,
whether her quiet fingers are still icy cold.
