The Last Time I Bumped Into Don Murray

                                                 by Ralph Fletcher

                     

The last time I bump into Don Murrray

 his 83 year old hands were long,

white, blue-veined, tremulous 

but strong when we shook hands.

Those hands carried a gun in the war,

and broke up fights between soldiers.

At 50 they signed the legal paper

to take his daughter off life support.

I’d watch him offer a hand to his frail wife,

not to lift her up, as he explained it,

but as a fixed point in the world

she could pull against to stand.

The hands gestured as he talked:

 “Even when Minnie Mae was dying

I was able to finish most projects—

I did a lot of writing in my head.”

I pointed at his hand: “You’re bleeding.”

The waitress fetched a Bandaid,

his hands such a river of trembling

he could not manage to unwrap it

so he finally let me do it for him,

more amused than embarrassed,

muttering about new medication,

as I tenderly covered the small wound.