familiar wrinkles.

Your hands never styled my hair when I was young

Because they lacked experience

And because I was content with a ponytail.

Your hands instead would rub my back in church

Because they were anxious not to fall asleep

And because I already had.

Your hands tapped your legs loudly while I cried on the phone last year

Because they felt helplessness in the face of tragedy I faced

And because I couldn’t be held in their embrace.

My hands smoothed your tears after the funeral

Because your own were shaking from grief

And because it was my turn to do the heavy lifting.