The Hand

My kid pointed at my wrist

and suddenly I couldn't resist

seeing what they saw. Her hand.

My hand. The way I stand

holding the mug, the tired

grip. The way she acquired

this gesture years ago,

and now it's mine. I know

what's happening. The voice

that came wasn't my choice—

it was hers. The sigh

meant everything. The tie

between us. I can't fight it.

I'm becoming her. Despite it,

I'm her. The way she holds

the mug. The tired folds

of her weariness in my brow.

My kid sees it. They know how

this ends. They see me

becoming what I swore I'd never be.