Pocket of Kindness

Been almost ten years since her passing.
I aged overnight and also haven’t aged a day.
I’ve stood in the same corner; heart resting in the palm of my open hands.
I am no juggler and anyone will tell it doesn’t take one,
but I’ve found it hard to keep it from falling to the floor every now and then,
as those oblivious to me (and to the throbbing object in my palms) storm past, unaware of
whether they step on it (or one of my fingers) while I scramble to piece it back together.
I’ve also found no takers for it. It’s for me to keep. It was with her all of twenty-six years;
it’s been under my custody only since she began slipping out of my hands.
Empty and empty-handed was I, she thought it best to occupy my restless hands with. ‘Here,
take care of it like you would if it were mine.’
But it isn’t. It’s mine and has no takers.
Perhaps it’s too rusty, too scarred, too hideous, too off-putting. I don’t know. She’d kept it
safe all these years, tucked away in her pocket of kindness that had no bottom.
If someone would just stick around, hold it for me while I look for fallen pieces, dust them
off, put them back together, or, if they’d affix some bandages while it’s still in my palms,
I could eventually put it where it really needs to go.
I can’t put it in a pocket where walls are still abrasive and while it’s still hurting.
If they’d only hold it for a moment, I could rest my hands –
they hurt too.