Hands

Hands

Their aged hands are joined
from wheelchair to bed.
He sleeps.HANDS
She waits…
for the inevitable.
Occasionally, she nods off
from her black metal perch.
But their hands don’t let go.
This is how
it’s always been—
the two of them.
Connected.
By hand,
By heart,
By love.

 

In memory of my father, David T. Lane

February 21, 1924-June 14, 2015

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