back of hand
Sorella’s: regular Sunday breakfast and book. i spray anti-melanoma level 100 sunblock over exposed skin, glasses hooked on nose to be able to read menu and book. i telescope in on the back of my meaty truck driver’s hand, my right hand. the spray block has made the skin reflective and shiny as if polyurethaned and preserved like an outdoor deck: piss on it and you won’t make a dent. or like the burnt skin of a roasted turkey. neither metaphor pleases until i realize i am seeing my mother’s hand, the back of her hand, veined like a trellis, spotted with freckles and asymmetrical brown shapes of varying size. one in particular resembles Rhode Island, a state that means nothing to me, but there it is, in miniature on the back of my 70 year old paw. as my train chases the ‘golden year’ goal posts i laugh at myself and wonder how gracefully or with a curmudgeonly threatening cane i will deal with the end of life — a map of which i can see, like a pirate’s treasure, on my bewildered hand.
This is an excerpt from my book, The Paragraphs — Cutlass Press
About The Paragraphs and how to order
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