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Poetry

February 23, 2001

Hand Messages

Memories like thistles
Cling to your clothes because they like the nap,
The nap which they also take
During long winter months
(poor goldfinches who starve!).
When the sap starts running, clear images emerge
Neither picky nor choosy about which year
They were garnered.

Taken alone, each remembered joint appeared out of joint,
Misshapen, ugly, but still accommodating
Clumsily to its neighbors, cuddling in between
For their mutual protection.

Those of advanced age ascribe their wrinkles
Either to serious outdoor labor in the sun, or
To the variety of athletic sports always played
In the sun, besides the popular sport of
Tanning at the beach in the 1920s.

With humankind, hands wrinkled or smooth
Are enabled to provide comfort and reassurance, to
Lift the scourge of distaste or rejection
Of unappealing objects.
Take notice of discussion leaders with their interlocked
Fingers for relaxation, seeming calm, except for
Their anxious, drifting eyes.

These and other thoughts catapulted out of my head
Unfettered and free of restraint, they
Seemed easier to explain while lying in bed,
Easier to demonstrate nature's complementaries.

HELEN'S LAST POEM: NOTES WRITTEN SHORTLY BEFORE SHE DIED OF OVARIAN CANCER ON FEBRUARY 25, 2001

While riding down Westchester Parkway years ago, aimlessly gazing out the window, I was attracted to the woman sitting in the back seat of the nearby car, with her hands splayed out of the rear window. They were horribly disfigured by arthritis, with outsized, grotesque-looking joints, looking extremely painful. For months, and even now, their memory remained vivid—so impressive, they put me on a routine of hand care lasting to the present.

Today, during a friendly exchange with Head Nurse Joan Gallagher at Massachusetts General Hospital where I come for chemotherapy, we learned of our mutual parallel doctoral degrees in education—a most important step for a qualified head nurse. As we spoke, I lying in bed and scrutinizing my aging fingers, an idea of great moment flashed through my brain. Silently I queried why humans failed to profit from the paradigm of hands, hands comfortable altogether, protective, encompassing, even cuddling disfigured segments. Hands working together in harmony—not complaint.

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