A Parkinson’s L(W)ife

Your unblinking told me that I was curtains.
Your fingers moved across your blue wool jacket
like fingers following the strings of a musical instrument.
Evenings, you wriggled your calloused fingers
into the cracks in the walls, scrutinizing their insides.
Veterans’ club, your friends clicked their tongues
in sympathy, when they learnt about your disease
and wondered out loud if they had tremors
while holding the wineglass or if they had holes
in their understanding of the sheet of time.
Last week, while slicing boiled bananas
with the edge of a spoon, you whispered at me
that you wanted to return to life and freedom.
I wish you could.

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