What Stays in Our Hands

We spent the afternoon

pulling up the perennials

that had been there longer than her marriage.

Hostas, bleeding heart,

the names didn't matter.

What mattered was that they were coming up

whether they wanted to or not.

She was leaving the neighborhood.

The new owners wanted a lawn.

So we dug.

My hands got black.

The dirt packed tight

under each nail like it was trying

to stay there, like it had found

somewhere to root.

I scrubbed in her kitchen sink.

Hot water. Soap. A brush.

I scrubbed until my fingertips

were raw and the dirt was still there,

a dark line under each nail,

a map of what we'd pulled up,

a record I couldn't wash away.

In the car driving home

I kept looking at my hands

on the steering wheel,

the dark crescents,

the stain of her garden

that would stay for days,

maybe weeks,

that would show up

under my nails at work,

at dinner,

in photographs.

I'd helped her erase it.

I'd put my hands in the soil

and made it happen.

Now I was carrying the proof

under my nails,

marked by something I'd destroyed,

holding it in my hands

like it was mine to keep,

like the soil would never—