Hands

At four years old
He still asks for my hand, sometimes,
When he lies down for bed.

My whole body melts,
But my hand stays firm.
I can never let go.
I won’t.
I don’t -
Want to imagine how it would be
If either hand were no longer
An option.

*
He holds firmly to a buzzer,
Swiftly and calmly racking up bills
Like a trivia god.
He holds firm to a buzzer,
Like he holds a memento of little purpose
But more priceless than trivia game infamy.

The memento, he says, was his
Father’s prized possession.
And it’s all he has besides hazy memories
Typical of a five year old.
That was when his father died.
So, he clutches onto the memento.

His father did not have the chance to see him be
The trivia god,
Holding firmly to a buzzer -
With a hand he no longer can hold
For joy and for calm and for protection and for being.
And neither can the son.

I could not imagine.
I don’t.

***

4/22/2021

// thinking about Mario Gonzalez (from Oakland, CA) and his 4yo son //