Poem: Hands

CW: mention of suicide, mention of self-harm, dementia

 

This is my most recent poem, dated 14th October 2020. The previous series of poems all about the same theme/person is over, and I wanted to post something more recent before I go back to old poems. This poem contains one brief mention of suicidal thoughts and self-harm.

 

Hands:

Children, famously, ask awkward questions,

especially when I never know where to draw

the line between my policy of gentle honesty

and what their parents want them to hear.

I’ve only known her for a day and a half when

the little girl puts her hand happily in mine and

asks me what I think the point of life is. Unlike

with her other forays into an eight year-old’s

philosophy, I don’t hesitate before my answer:

It is to be kind.

I can’t blame her for her quiet dissatisfaction;

it’s a boring answer, but in this case at least,

it is truth. I’d say I wish someone had told me

when I was her age, but in the same lines of

truth, I don’t think I would have believed them.

I went to science for my answers, decided that

if I could determine why the first cell transferred

ions with its neighbour, I would understand why

I had wanted to die since I was eight years old.

She leaves my hand for a moment, running

to a tree to pluck the seeds from its branches,

and I pull my coat tighter instinctively. We are

teaching her to feel the ground beneath her

feet, the wind on her face, to savour the cold

of each indrawn breath; I know all too well how

easy it is to become lost when the injustices of

childhood shake through her tiny body, and I

do wish someone had taught me this before.

I once wept for all the pillows I had punched,

though I never cried for the bruises I left on

my own skin. I have learned to let anger pass

through me, to take injustice from the air and

metabolise it, break it down in my lungs so

all the exhale offers is calm. I want my walls

to say, They were kind to us, my floors to feel

no stamp but the warming of cold feet. There

is a time to fight, and there is a time to grow.

Love, that overused poem, does both, and I

have fought enough times, been my own tiger’s

claws when cornered, to know that the greatest

act of love can be taking up a sword. But I have

also lost so much of myself to the bonfire of

fury that I will always choose gentleness where

possible, forgiveness when that is a braver act

than violence. I want even my decay to be the

fertiliser for flowers to grow beneath my feet.

She comes running back, takes up my hand

again, and I am humbled by the easy trust of

it. I am eight years ago or so, on a school visit

to an old people’s home; we drift, bored teens,

between the senile elderly, muffled giggles and

awkward mumbles, when a woman’s fingers

twine in mine from nowhere. I still remember the

texture of her hands, delicate, soft wrinkled skin

over bones, guiding me to kneel like a knight.

Time stops as I smile and, with the wonder of a

newborn child, she smiles back. She touches

the pin on my blazer, an owl, coos and pats,

fascinated. Our time is too short; in moments I

am called away, and her face falls as this brief

connection wavers – unpinning the owl and

folding it into her hand is the first time I have

felt absolutely at peace in this world. I think now

I knew God for the first time in her joy just then.

This hand, equally fragile, at the opposite pole

of life, brings me back, letting go to point out a

robin on the near fence with glee. I truly believe

that we were put on this earth to make others’

lives better. When I am gone, I do not hope that

people will say I was kind, but rather that I was

simply kind, without want of reward. I never want

my careless fault to be someone’s last straw;

intentional kindness can be all the difference.

One time, I stood in the rain for six hours with

a woman I had never met before because she

had asked me, sobbing, for help. On the phone

with charity after charity, they kept asking who I

worked for – unable to believe that someone

would be so generous for free. I don’t know her,

I kept repeating. She just needed help. Time and

time again she begged me not to leave, and I

won’t pretend it didn’t occur to me, but I stayed.

When finally she was safe, she clutched my

hands for twenty minutes, repeating again: you

saved my life, thank you, thank you, I can’t

believe you stayed. We had been pushed out

from doorway to doorway, denied and turned

away all day, and every time, all I thought was,

Good God, what is the point of life if not to be

kind to one another? All my friends asked me

why I did not walk away, and all I could say was:

She just needed help.

I cannot fathom a philosophy that is not rooted

in simply being kind to one another. Fuck! What

purpose do you have if not making the world

better for your being there? I want the mark I

leave on this world to be a wildflower meadow

fertilised by every worm I picked off the pavement

and moved into mud with my bare hands. What

even are we doing with every step we take, if not

making the path easier for the next person to walk it?

As the path winds back toward home, her steps

slow, the offer of a hand turned down as she climbs

to balance along a low wall. She is of an age where

independence is the greatest gift, yet I hope she

learns before I did how to say, I need help. There is

a lot I hope she learns, of course, but above all else,

this: that the greatest gift of all is simply to be kind.

Look after yourself when you must, but offer your

whole heart to the world every single time you can.

On the bus home, an insect from the bush we

brushed against rounds my sleeve. I cup my hands

like a cradle for the whole half-hour ride, release it

onto grass first chance I get. It will never know the

kindness, but regardless, a kindness was done. I

think of the woman in the rain, of the hundreds who

walked past without pausing, of the pin badge, of

bruises, of hands. I look around at the people looking

for answers in their phones, and pray that they know:

It is to be kind.