Happy Ending for Sunday Scribblings

Something to Hold Onto

It’s such a simple thing,
the touching of hands:
the trust
between a child and adult,
the tickle-thrill of lovers’
fingers speaking
in Braille,
the enormity of a slap.

Hands are mouths
and tools
and birds.

When my husband
lays his hand
palm up
on the elbow rest
between our two seats
as we’re on our way
to camp in our school-bus
yellow 1979 Ford Ranchero,
I rest my hand there,
softly, gently,
and the sun
comes out between us.