Hands Poem by Susan McMaster

You take off your boots.
Coat still buttoned,
turn from the hall
into the apartment
you left a week before.
One final trip
to pick up a few things
for the retirement home.
You step through the arch
into the living room.
Your hands come together.
Close around each other
as if against cold.
The couch is gone.
Your lamp.
Your chair.
The floor a mess
of movers' boots.
One curtain askew.
A few more steps.
You come to a stop.
I place my hands
over yours.
They're warm.
I'm surprised.
You bend your head
into my shoulder
and I put my arms around you.
Your hands,
still between us,
hold onto something
no one can hold.