Like Gossamer

8241564-hands-of-an-old-man

He awakens in the dark again,
curiosity about the time stronger
than the weight of yesterday
upon his eyelids. But it’s the weight
of all his yesterdays upon his hands,
when he reaches for his watch,
that tells him how late it really is.
With an eye-opening pop, the tendons
of his thumb and fingers catch and
break loose with each knuckle’s bend.

Its 4:40 AM, too early to rise and,
as he once again grasps the cruel truth,
too late to seize the day as he once did.
With a shrug and a roll, he touches
her warm skin. His fingertips still
sense the pebbled goose-bump mountains
he never needed an iron grip to traverse.
With a contented grin, he draws the shades
upon his eyes, soon dozing again,
the memory of all those yesterdays
like gossamer in his hands.

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3 thoughts on “Like Gossamer

  1. Achingly beautiful. You wrote this one exactly right. You could have been describing my parents. As a matter of fact, the hand pictured looks much like my father’s. After Mother died, we lost a little of Daddy every day because when he reached for the woman he was married to for 66 years, she wasn’t there.

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