She Didn't Know What She Was Holding

She was seven. She grabbed my wrist

the way a seven-year-old grabs —

no announcement, no asking,

just the full decision of it:

four fingers landing directly

on the bone.

There's a name for that knob.

I learned it once and let it go.

She was pulling me toward something —

a dog across the street,

or a particular cloud.

I don't remember what. I remember

the four fingers.

The thumb not quite reaching around.

The bone right there, close to the surface,

ready to be found by anyone

who reached.

She pulled. I went.

Whatever she'd seen had all her attention.

She wasn't thinking about bones.

She wasn't thinking about me,

not really —

just the direction she needed

and the thing at the end of her arm.

I had a feeling I'm still

trying to name.

Not pain. Not tenderness.

Closer to being read

by someone who isn't reading you.

The way she held the bone

and didn't know she held it.

I was a handle.

I was a thing she needed

to get somewhere.

And for a moment

I was also just a skeleton

moving through a Sunday afternoon,

with a child's hand on the evidence.