April 15th

Your Hands

Carry with them my growth. On the palms
I can trace the first time I stayed
late at work, looking for overtime pay in every envelope
I stuffed. 
Near your thumb is my 20 year old self learning
to believe that God loved me, regardless of how my hips burned
at the sight of another woman. 
There's a squiggle near your wrist - it's me at 21, 
having wine for the first time, one afternoon after work
and there are so many firsts, so many lasts
some I'd forgotten until today when I watch your hands
place your oldest son in his car seat,
turn the wheels of your car - 
remember the first time you drove with me
in the passenger seat?
I wasn't allowed to speak, you were so nervous, 
afraid you'd do something wrong and hurt me,
we crossed the Williamsburgh Bridge in silence
riding in your dad's old car. 

Here I am, doing another first with you- 
vacationing with the "in-laws" - 
wondering if it'll always feel this way
if our children together will play
if things were really meant to be as you point
that our loves grew up less than a mile 
from each other, like our homes in Brooklyn
were, as you take me in your hands one 
more time before waiting for me to go inside
and drive away with my growth once
I walk in and wave adios.


© Yazcaminante, 2011