I look at my hands and see these rough, caliced hands covered with the dirt and scars of time. They’re foreign to me, not the hands I thought I knew…
I help him to the car, he’s very sick. I’m the only one around, he becomes my responsibility. In my hands I carry him out and drive him in.
I hear them say he’s not in good shape. He’s going to be admitted so I help him to his room. At home I tell my mother, I tell my sister. Still I feel alone, and when I look they turn. All I have are my hands.
When I go to visit, they say he may not make it so I turn for a friend, but no one’s there. They’ve changed, moved on. I struggle through again. He fights through, and I’m by his side, hand in hand. I worry so he doesn’t; he has much on his plate. My confidence gives him the strength. They say he can go home now.
…With time to myself, I again look at my hands, but now they are no longer strange. When I look I see the hands I have grown to know.