On the Other Hand
Because he is my left hand, you see
not the right.
The right hand is a showboat, the
quarterback with all its dexterity
always threading and opening and
making the thinnest slices,
the finest lines
The left is the practical unsung. It is the
opposing force of pressure and
balance; a stage for the right hand’s
spinning plates and leaping tigers and firey rings
The left hand is the stevedore
the bouncer holding back the herd
while the chosen dance.
The simple fulcrum
upon which the world can be moved
He is my counterweight, gladly falling
so I can be lifted.
He believes it is his job, you see
as a father.
– for Bubs, 4/20/2012
postscript
We didn’t always get along. In fact, we spent many years stubbornly pretending the other didn’t exist. Then things got hard —very hard— and I saw him break. It changed our lives in an astonishing way. I got almost 10 more years to relearn him and how his mind works; to understand my own busted reactions, and what I needed to fix in myself.