My father's hands.

In the mirror

while shaving.

Just for a

split second.

I see my hands.

Mine but not mine.

I stop.

I breathe.

I put down the razor

that has somehow

cut me deeper today

then any day before

and touch my eyes

through the glass.

Who is that?

These are my eyes I'm

sure of it.

Mine but not mine.

I stop.

I breathe.

These hands are hard

and coarse.

These eyes are faded

like worn leather.

Like ripped jeans.

Like deflated footballs.

Like decades of anxiety.

I stop.

I breathe.

These hands are

my father's hands.

These eyes are

my father's eyes.

Hands that have loved.

Hands that have hurt.

Hands that have held a child.

Hands that have beaten a man.

Hands that have worked with sharp steel and wood.

Hands that have carried money.

Hands that have carried nothing.

Hands that have clenched into fists.

Hands that have wiped away tears.

I stop.

I breathe.

I look at my father's hands

with my father's eyes,

and know that somewhere,

he is looking at my hands

with my eyes,

and we are weeping,

and wiping away

eachothers tears

with eachothers hands.

Unable to change

and better for it.