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My Uncle's Hands

The keys stared at me today.
The hard lines between the white and black
became gapping holes
like spaces between planets-
Holes big enough to suck my fingers
into should I miss a note-
One misplaced sharp...and BAMN!
...I’d forever play Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody
with a missing pinky.
And I just couldn’t have that because
one day I wanted to play Dr. Zhavago
for my uncle since it is his favorite,
and Cannon in D for my future husband.
My uncle once told me that when I was first born,
I fit into the palm of his hand.
My tiny feet dangled on his wrist,
“You looked so small…fragile.
I thought you might break.”
He held me delicately,
like a thinly shelled egg,
like a water balloon about to burst.
I was a glass filled to brim
and he just knew I would spill over.
My mom and aunt often giggled at his frozenness,
his unwillingness to move or talk too loudly.
They told the only movement came
from his wild heart that softly shook his ribcage and pushed sporadic pulses to his wrists.
He often points to the palm of his hand to show me.
“You fit right here…right here”
I look at the plushy pads of his hands,
his fingers stubby, fat, and gentle,
and wonder if all men get
these kinds of hands-
the kind that hold daughters.
I wonder if when I get married
my husband will have these kind of hands-
the kind I fit into for the times I break.

28 Jun 07

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Line 3 - do you need to change gapping to gaping?  

I love the last verse the most.  The first is a little confusing.  I had the idea that your uncle would cut off your little finger if you hit the wrong note.  

I think line 26 is missing some words - can you check that line and see if something belongs there?  

I really like the last line, very good.  (Make sure you get the hands you need, don't compromise when it comes to a husband!)
 — Isabelle5