Who Signed That

I was signing something—

nothing important, just a form,

a counter, fluorescent light,

the pen that barely worked.

I looked down at my hand

in the middle of the signature

and didn't know it.

Two seconds.

Maybe three.

Just a hand.

Older than I thought I was.

The vein along the back.

The loose skin over the knuckles

shifting when the pen moved.

I've had this hand my whole life.

I finished signing.

The woman at the counter took the form

without looking up.

I walked back to the car.

Sat in it for a minute

with both hands on the wheel.

They looked like my father's hands.

I don't know when that happened.

I turned the key.