My Son's Hands
By Zoltan Krompecher                            

I watch my son, six-month-old Jack,

inspect his hands, precious toys

that never need batteries.  He turns them

clockwise, then counter-clockwise,

smiling as I reach out to him.  Small fingers

clench my pinky.   My mind

coasts and accelerates

as the son holds the hand of the father

and the fathers before him.

I wonder

will those hands experience

the indescribable joy of holding a new child?

Will they feel the satisfying sting of a boy's first

double (on an error of course) after striking out time and time again?

Will they hold a little girl's hand on that first long walk

across the playground, suffering the jeers of playmates

but gaining the thrill of first love?

When my son is sixteen, will he feel the pride

of cleaning these fingers after changing the oil or

gripping the wheel of a beat-up Ford as it careens down

a country road with the windows down to hear

the whizzing cornstalks laugh at the night?

One day, will they tremble as he slides

an unbroken circle on his lover's finger,

whispering those solemn words, "I do"?

Will he ever touch the gravestones of his people,

who went before him, while contemplating

his own station in life?

Jack squeezes my finger, and I imagine

calluses on his hands from baling hay,

remembering the grip of the earth

as it resists my shovel, embracing the

power and humility of the working man.

I wonder

will these fingers manipulate

the strings of a guitar or the buttons

of a keyboard, giving voice to music or prose? 

I don't want him producing antiseptic memorandums

for an uncaring and faceless corporation.

If these fingers will ever grip a drink

so hard that life itself depends on a bottle

and the "good times" that go along with it?

Our family has a history of finding answers

in a brown bag

Will they curl into a tight, knotty

fist, clenched and swung drunkenly

over and over again, connecting

with another man's face,

waking up torn and ashamed?

I hope not, but it's been known to happen

If I know anything, and it's not much

I pray Jack's hands never

wrap around the receiver of a gun

as he buries the stock against his shoulder, while

placing one finger on the trigger during

that fleeting moment where life compresses

like a coil ready to spring into action

unsure what to do next, never

hesitate, then pay for all eternity; never

squeeze, then live forever with the consequences.

Jack lets go of my pinky, and I wonder

whether my son will one day squeeze

my hand when I am the feeble one

and he is the man.

I watch my son inspect his hands.

I wonder.

Posted 5-19-06