The things we hold
His hand closed.
Surely, it wasn’t empty; something must be there.
It had to have weight or mass or meaning, it had to be anything other than air.
For he was taking it with him.
Was it a palmful of aspirations, hopes and dreams?
Thing’s he’d wished for but never seen?
Was it some of the pain he’d borne and carried
From the day of his birth until the one he was buried?
It had to be important, something clutched and dear.
Not easily released, like a deeply held fear.
Or was it something he’d picked up along the way?
The smell of home, perhaps the tug of love’s gentle sway.
A thing that was cherished and fondly grasped.
A memory that lingered when others had lapsed.
Maybe it was his granddaughter’s gentle smile,
When she came to sit, and chat a while?
I don’t know, I couldn’t quite see,
As he breathed a last breath and closed his hand in front of me.
I think what he’d wrapped so carefully with his fingers and thumb,
Was a brimming handful of the promises to come.