On Being Too Small, Too Much of the Time

Your hands are the last thing I remember,

And so become the first

Memory disembodies and separates,

Until I only see your long fingers.

 

I would like to hold onto your voice

But how do you remember a sound?

 

At the kitchen table after eggs, cheese, crackers,

So much fat!

You’d twist your wedding ring

Round and round

50 years of love nearly worn right through

 

I cannot recall if they

Took it to the shop

Details blur, hands remain but are gone and if gone,

not if, just gone, where did home go?

 

Did they bury your ring with you

Or was it plundered too?

 

Some days I check my hands

In the hope they change,

But my fingers stay too short,

I am too small to be you.

 

by Ali Millar