hands.

*

he called for her, and she came running as always. with small hands outstretched, carefully she held three nails and one hammer. she reached, handing them up the ladder. it seemed so tall and wonderous to a six year old girl. even more wonderous was that he could climb it. step by step, first a foot, then reach with the hands, then the next foot--all the way to the top.

he took a nail between the fingers of his left hand, pressed his right palm against the wall to frame the spot. drove the nail part-way into the dark blue wall. it was the blue of the sky well after sunset, but not quite dark enough to make out all the stars. he finished hanging the picture, situated midway between the northern wall and the window in the western wall.

it was a framed photograph of them together in the park. father and daughter, hand in hand. a friend had taken the candid shot on a spring afternoon. the light shone from the window, streaming across the picture with just enough warmth to bring the images to life.

-

images. that's all memory is, really. a continuum of interconnected images handed to us from the past. we then sort these images into 'proper' order to create our stories. slipping in and out of reality, hand crafting our nests of comfort for when there's nowhere else to turn.


there's nowhere else to turn

sometimes you find yourself standing alone when you most need someone lifting you up. there's nothing to be done--you can't ask for help. you've been screaming, reaching, crying for them for so long, you can't bring yourself to reach anymore. exhausted. and asking might place an unwanted burden on their shoulders... [even the hands of love can't be trusted, anymore.] and the people you want most, you can't talk to. it hurts too much to be reminded that they don't love you. never have. never will. and they'll never be there for you. there are others, sure. they'd give you a hand. but one doesn't care, a few wouldn't understand, and a couple captured a piece of driftwood and were carried away in a flood of their own tears. this leaves you with two options: keep crawling along the ground, with every bit of strength you have left, hand over hand until you reach the end. or...give up.

too stubborn to give up--i'm still crawling.

and if you'll look, you'll see me standing beside you, offering my hand.

-

she crawled in first, then he lifted himself to the other side of the bed and pulled the covers over them. he reached for her, pulled her closer. she let herself fall into him, head on his chest. they lay relaxed, quiet, listening to rain fall on the tin roof. he held her face gently in his hands, the way you might hold the moon after lifting it from its cloud-shelf in a timeless sunset. she examined the contours of his face--a curve here, a smooth line drawn there--she traced the lines with her fingers. he searched the depths of her eyes, almost believing he could reach her Heart from here.

she smiled and turned to her side, with her back to him. she set her head against the right arm wrapped beneath her. he let his left hand slide from her stomach, to her elbow, down to her hand. he grabbed it and raised it just enough, kissed it, interlaced his fingers with hers and watched their hands fall together. he wondered what his lips felt like against the soft skin of her shoulder. she gathered her hair and he leaned over for the nape of her neck, then her cheek. her lips parted just so, and met his in an expression of smooth quiescence even the most talented poet couldn't adequately describe...


they stepped out of the car that last evening. she watched him gather his things, then walk towards her. i won't cry, she told herself. he held her for a moment--she felt his warm hands against her back and his soft breath in her ear.
bye, he said.
bye, she managed to whisper.
a single tear fell. a tear no one saw, and was gone before he let her go. he stepped back, squeezed her hand once, and turned to pick up his suitcase.
he didn't say anything else to her. she couldn't say anything else to him. he stepped through the sliding doors, into the building
and he was gone.

-

gone.
done.
over.
destroyed.
broken.

the hands on the clock won't move. it isn't broken, you know. it hasn't worked since it was handed to me that day, but it's not broken. it just needs a battery. i wonder when it died.

not a frown upon it's face, and its hands never hung by it side.
but it stopped, short, never to go again when the old man died

[name that tune..]
when she died, he died with her. that was just over a year ago.

-

lights go out and i can’t be saved
tides that i tried to swim against
brought me down upon my knees
oh i beg, i beg and plead

singin’, come out if things aren’t said
shoot an apple off my head
and a trouble that can’t be named
tigers waiting to be tamed


confusion never stops
closing walls and ticking clocks
gonna, come back and take you Home
i could not stop that you now know

singin’, come out upon my seas
curse missed opportunities
am i a part of the cure
or am i part of the disease?

and nothing else compares

Home, Home, where i wanted to go

clocks, coldplay

-

she looked up and said, hold me--hold my hand in yours. and make me believe it'll be alright.



remind me...