I hoped you wouldn’t notice
The telltale finger gashes
The hours I spent
Learning how to make
A simple paper crane
I hoped it looked effortless
As I reshaped the letter
you kept reading, and rereading
All week.
By now, I knew the routine:
Five o’clock, park swings.
You would unfold the missive,
Read it out to me
Ask if you missed anything,
Any clue,
Why she left
And once again,
I would shake my head
Wishing there was something
I could do
To ease your pain.
Today, when you asked
What the hell she meant
I took the offending letter
from your hands
I folded, and aligned,
And folded again
Till her razor-sharp words
disappeared
Into wings
(What I really wanted to do
Was tear up the letter
Into tiny pieces
and assemble them into
a thousand cranes
so you could make
a wish;
But I knew
I would never be forgiven)
With a silent bow
I tucked the bird
in your hands
Only for you to promptly unfold my art
back into the shape
of your grief.
But that’s ok;
See you again tomorrow,
Five o’clock,
Swings.
This was a beautiful if sad recount of how we should love the hands that love us. The imagery of your hands turning pain, morphing it into promise of new love. Very nice!
Exactly the image I wanted to conjure, so happy to hear that! And you put it so poetically, too–thank you aramsey!