Empty Hands / Full Hands

Empty hands. Found myself standing in my office, forgetting why I walked into the room. My empty hands only served as a reminder of need. I needed something. My empty hands curled. Expecting.
Slight moment of inconvenience earlier today—Ricky habitually locked the back door as I sat talking on the phone on the porch. He took Brendan to the grocery store, a gathering of the week's necessary supplies, leaving me without a means of getting back inside the house. Thankfully, I had scrap paper with me—and a pen. Passed the time generating fragments. An irritating itch formed along my right index finger.
A mouse has found its way into our garage. As I parked the car tonight, the slender shadow of a rodent slipped across boxes and folded canvas chairs, traveled over the edge of my stored work table which leans against the wall. Heavy sense of guilt bloomed—knowing a trap will be set down soon.
Bathing Brendan, I watched his lithe body trembling within the lukewarm water. He laughed with the application of soap, the damp flannel crossing his face and chest. Every opportunity allows for splashing. For slippery escapes, seal-like adventures across the tub. A stronger sense of his independence emerges nightly. Yet, I hold him firmly in my waiting hands.


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