Handing it Over

The Vlasic jar has a vacuum seal

that won't budge for him anymore.

He’s grunting, his face the color of a bruised plum,

veins bulging in a neck that used to look like a tree trunk.

He gives up and slides it across the Formica.

"You try," he says, his voice a notch too thin.

I pop the seal with one easy twist.

When he takes it back, I see his wedding band

sliding down a finger that’s lost its grip.

I accidentally pinch the skin on the back of his hand.

It stays up in a little ridge,

slow to flatten out,

like a memory of where he used to be.