Round here, she’s slipping though my hands
“Round Here,” Counting Crows
i texted you in the fog of waking
having not responded the night before
i didn’t fall asleep
i past out
you replied
correcting me as you do
your sleep was so serious
that you went back in time
you often ask me to say hell
as entertainment so i thought
past out is what we say around here
like my extra syllable in hay-uhl
father’s day was a couple days ago
the recent past now passed
while you have been away
i have been looking at my hands
with summer tanning and 58 years
they look even older than usual
but they are all i have left of my father
who passed away two summers ago
mine not exactly like my father’s
because no one has those giant hands
but i see him more and more each day
in my own hands reaching into our past
i texted you i am sorry i am old
carrying almost more past than i can bear
and you asked me about my father’s day
although you know i hate holidays
because they become less holy
but burdens of remembering loss
these things, they go away
replaced by everyday
while i am here mishandling being alone
and you are there
i imagine us on your couch
i lean my head back and close my eyes
so i can only feel the arch of your foot
and not see my father’s hands there
i will not look
i will not let go
—P.L. Thomas