A STRANGER'S HAND

Timidly searching the air for re-connection,

you slowly reached toward us with your right hand.

Your left arm lay forsaken in your lap - 

motionless from stroke and lack of use.

I stood, surprised, stilled, at your wheelchair,

unable to greet your too-late gesture to dissolve

the distance of this separate year.

A stranger met your query, cupping your hand in hers;

giving you the embrace I could no longer give,

after these six wearisome years.

I watched you blow air kisses

that evaporated in the afternoon heat.

We spoke as though this day would soften our history –

like creamy icing on a dry cake.

We sipped sweet punch and watched children frolic;

squinted in the sun - reddened in its warmth.

We talked of food and memorials to departed warriors;

you remembered your youth and The War and Daddy.

How you miss his voice. My sister's glance

held the moment behind dark glasses:

We gave you all we had - more than you could hold –

even Daddy's voice on tape. Unable to accept any flaw,

you insisted the machine didn't work, and blamed us all.

So, it sits with colored dots to guide you - Daddy's voice,

a touch away. We sang hymns to a greater spirit and faded hopes;

contemplated a salvation that has alluded us. 

Rhythms and harmonies arose and meshed

like a transparent net, capturing disparate, unruly voices.

You sat just behind the others – watching,  uncertain

about the songs.  Our eyes met as we each surveyed the distant faces.

A stranger reached out her hand - I cupped it in my own.

© 2013, Vicky M. Semones