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Roger Jones

Goodbye


Asleep with my arm under my pillow and stretched so that my hand hangs loose off the bed, palm upward, I dream that someone’s hand enters mine a moment. It’s soft, warm, smooth, small. My mother’s hand. As I close my hand to squeeze, her hand slips out and off my fingertips, as if in goodbye. I dream I’m waking up. The hand is not my mother’s but my wife’s – an affectionate touch before she leaves for work. But then I wake up for real: she’s been gone for hours.

autumn morning
patches of light and shadow
on a stone floor