Tipton Poetry Journal – Winter 2022
Changing Hands Jennifer L. McClellan I’m standing on the retrospective isthmus that connects two divergent parts of myself; who I am with you who I’ll be without you. The part of me I recognize has a hand that reaches over the end table, careful not to tip sideways the vase of honeysuckle and coral roses, as I gently squeeze your hand like you’ve always done to mine when I’ve needed reassurance. I bought you a yellow summer shirt in case you decide to step outside to watch the birds at the feeders, but as of late you only go where I push you in your wheelchair and this morning has been still in the living room, your arthritic hands no longer able to do needlework. The light filters through the sheer white curtains as we listen to Andy Williams’ lustrous voice sing “May Each Day” and my throat tightens. I watch the ageless golden couple, ceaselessly revolve under the glass domed anniversary clock. They spin with a weightlessness I envy. An unawareness of the inevitable things that have found us: a hefty medicine schedule, oxygen tubes, nurse home visits, and the weight of your body leaning on my shoulders as I help you get dressed. Dad’s been gone twelve and a half years, but at least his picture is still on the mantle place. I wish I could watch the two of you dance again. I wish you and I could dance again, painlessly, like the tiny couple keeping time to this old song you know the words to.
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