I watched you watch that photo,
the boy with dirt and muddy hands,
as you told me that you were going to start the shower,
leaving the dishes in the sink,
a particular weariness in your look.
I know that little boy,
because he still lingers in your weary expression -
not one of sleepiness,
you had tried to convince me.
The boy in the photo was an only child -
inventing backyard adventures,
gathering sticks and pebbles,
cupping piles of ground in his hands,
like how the kids next door caught baseballs,
laughing and yelling as they played together.
But when he was called inside,
and told to wash up tonight,
the boy would look down at his hands,
puzzled. He didn't see anything wrong.
I know that little boy from your photo book,
who crafted stories with his hands,
his head down,
apart from the other kids who played together.
And so, despite your appeared indifference,
I washed your dishes in the sink,
and joined you after the shower,
as you prepared notes for work tomorrow,
with my hands on your back,
on your shoulders,
looking down with you,
crafting stories with my hands,
feeling your puzzled, weary expression
disappear
with every touch
as you sigh in content.