Two tiny hands exploring
Fingers feeling textures
Turning pages of a book
Grasping hands
Holding tight to tables, toys, and Gramma’s glasses
Hands that wave, bending at the knuckles, a baby smiles
Proud hands clapping soundlessly
Supporting hands
Holding up his body weight
Leading the forward crawl
Delicate fingers
Gently reaching for the green leaf, the blade of grass
Nimble fingers
Picking up the penny, no, no!
Now, picking up the cheerio
Pulling strings, making music
Bright red fingers pinched in the cupboard door
Tears of surprise, tears of pain
Two tiny hands,
Reaching for the world
*** *** ***
hands slipped into white cotton gloves
Sunday mornings
long ago
I’ll write it down
so I don’t forget
ink on palm
*** *** ***
“A hermit crab! I want a hermit crab!”
For a nine year old, no vacation at the beach is complete without this take-home souvenir. A trip to the boardwalk; the happy boy carefully carrying the cage.
Back home the new pet becomes part of the routine — feedings, playtime, crab gazing. Then one day, the scream! A race up the stairs. The boy is sitting on the bed, his hand is out flat. He looks like he is offering the hermit crab.
“It won’t let go!” he yells and yells again.
We pry and poke — no luck. The creature holds tight.
We put the palm under water, cold and hot. The creature holds tight.
We hit the shell. The creature holds tight.
At long last (I can’t remember exactly why) the crab lets go. All that’s left is a painful red welt in the tender skin.
Not many days later a decision is made. “I’m going to give that hermit crab away, to Scott,” he announces at the dinner table. The paraphernalia is packed up. But where’s the boy? Ah, here he comes now. He ties the paper he’s carrying to the cage. It reads, in bold red letters
Do Not Put Crab in Palm of Hand!!
