What My Hands Remember

The vibration of the harvest gold phone that hung from our kitchen wall the last Sunday you called. Mom’s fingernails digging into my palm as she yanked the receiver and slammed it in the cradle. The deep divots imprinted on the back of my thighs from the plastic seat covers of our old Buick. That wilted ten-dollar bill you slipped me, damp with sweat and stained with black grease. The pull of the passenger door when it locked.

Picking up crushed cans of Schlitz scattered like wildflowers around the fraying lawn chair. The weight of your body sprawled in daylight. Scratching mosquito bites on my knees until they bled and scabbed. Hammering a nail above the hole in the plaster wall. Centering the good picture of us over the hole—Your hand on mom’s shoulder; her hands holding me. Sweeping broken glass off the floor. The red ribbon for writing. The blue ribbon for running.

Pressing my arms against the metal railing on the second floor of Howard Johnson’s. Waving at you in the parking lot with my right hand as my thin skin burned to pink. The feel of my fingers laced with yours when you told us things would be different. Pinching my nose and holding my breath underwater. You jumped in and grabbed me. We broke the surface of the water together. My fingers hung from your neck when our mouths opened like choir singers, a duet of gasping.

Bubble gum. Bubble gum. In a dish. How many pieces do you wish? Ripping the sticky paper off a waffle cone dripping with vanilla ice cream. The shape of a perfect snowball. The width of your hands twirling me in a cotton sundress the color of daffodils. Out came the sun and dried up all the rain. Banging my fork on the table at IHOP between mouthfuls of pancakes. The syrup creeping past my thumb to my elbow. My tongue licking the sweet from my knuckles. But itsy-bitsy spider went up the spout again. How your eyelids felt like warm tissue paper when I rested my fingers in their sockets, my small legs dangling over your broad shoulders. We’re towering high above the other bodies in the crowd, a wobbly circus act: Your arms are outstretched, fingers clawing the air, feeling your way back home with each stumble. I am your eyes, whispering which way to turn.