journal

hands

 

when i am very old,
when you hold my hands in yours, 
i will not remember the 
way the walls stayed unpainted
for months,
cat piss in houseplants,
a huddle of laundry left
in the corner, 
coffee stains on the countertop.
my bones will become a home
for only beautiful things,
tissue paper skin worn thin: 
hands, face, feet,
from holding, wanting,
kneading, needing. 
i hope to be picked clean
by love, in the end.
so then, now,
when i am very sad, 
wanting for things 
i do not need,
aching for 
grieving for
lost time
hold my hands in yours and say,
here, now, then, this,
always the same.
you do not have time
to wait
want
ache
resent.
the beautiful things
are here, too.
think of the ocean,
the stillness beneath the waves.
dive deeply into this moment.
you cannot be destroyed. 
do not forget.
do not forget.

 
Kristen Hedges