Love’s Hands
By Niall Twohig
As a kid, I never saw Ma and Da hold hands.
Their love, burnt out before I was born,
was replaced by colder feelings.
I never saw them hold hands till the end.
The final months before Da passed,
Ma visited him in hospice.
She sat at his bedside
just as she did decades ago
when he was a sick priest
and, she, his nurse.
She sat awkward, for a time,
next to a man she knew
longer than any man.
Even knowing him
She knew not
what to say.
At a point,
she put
her hand
on his hand.
And I could tell
she loved him still
even though their love
burnt out years ago.
Touching her hand
to his hand
she touched
another Love—
that higher Love
that understanding Love
that understands they were just kids.
Just kids fighting over kid things.
Just kids trying to hold it all together.
Kids let each other down.
Kids break up.
Kids go to war.
Not souls.
Souls had to take the journey,
had to grow apart
to come together,
had to let go
to hold grandkids,
had to cry
to laugh again,
had to scream
to share this silence.
The Love
in these hands
is the Highest Love
A Love
that knows
we are bound together
even when it appears
we are apart.
We forget this.
We loosen our grip.
Curl fingers into fists.
But Someone
remembers for us
draws us back with threads
we worked so hard to tear
but that we can never tear
despite all our efforts,
despite all our will.
Ma and Da,
wherever you are,
it was beautiful
to behold
you held in
Love’s Hands.