These hands are a curse. They remind me that she is no longer here with me, that she can no longer hold me.

These hands are a curse. They remind me that she is no longer here with me, that she can no longer hold me. They are always cold, now. The mornings are the worst. In the years before, each day, I would make coffee for the both of us. We would wait for the light of a new morning. The house would smell like magnolias. She always loved magnolias. As though love itself would rest on the edge of a near wilted petal. We were younger. We could sleep for hours, hours on end. I remember first watching her read, resting her chin on the palm of her hand. Her deep brown eyes would widen as she read a sentence. I would watch her for hours, too afraid to say anything. Too shy to upset the untold love that a reader has for a book.


My hands made the mistake of touching her lightly, a trace of her passion flower shampoo weaving through my fingerprints. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to kiss her. All I remember is the red of her lips as my eyes opened, the small catch of breath as we parted. My fingers have lost their sensation. They are numb. The coffee is always for two, but these days I throw away the paper. Alone, in my bed. Our bed. Her side always perfectly made. The scent of passion flower still lingers as though teasing me, whispering in my ear.


Somewhere, she is alive. Somewhere far away, somewhere out of my reach. It is a curse that these hands cannot hold anything, that they cannot spoon sugar without seasoning the benchtop and the wooden kitchen floors. That they cannot braid a grandchild’s hair, or read a bedtime story to a boy half-asleep. I will sell away all of my dreams, all of my questions. I will give you anything, anything. To spend another day. To watch her reading, to touch her again. Anything.