Grip Strength

We sat on the wicker chairs

while the mosquitoes started their rounds.

She held the white bottle like a puzzle,

her thumbs sliding over the safety seal.

The click-click-click of the plastic

was the only sound between us.

I watched the blue ropes of her veins

struggle under skin as thin as wet paper.

She didn't ask for help.

She just kept turning the cap,

a slow, persistent failure

that made the porch feel suddenly too wide.

Eventually, she set it on her knee.

"I'm not actually in pain," she lied,

and her hands stayed open in her lap,

waiting for the grip to come back.