“To hold a hand is a magical act, a ritual of such simplicity
that it is easy to forget all that it can conjure.”
N P Smith
A MAGICAL ACT
There lay between my palms a hand,
cold and almost lifeless, such that
my warmth could make no gain.
It’s eyes were shut,
no expression played across it’s face
and only the habit of breathing
remained as a sigh seeping over lips.
But as the callous hands of a clock
clunked, relentlessly, to an unknown
hour, minute and second, a moment
of dread and embarrassed release,
I felt the fingers curl and grip my
hand and I knew it’s import was
love and reassurance, a knowing
of what we were to each other
and a last goodbye.
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