Times

You wrap your hands around the steering wheel. Those thick short fingers with those bulging veins running down your sturdy hands. They take me to the black and white time. Your hands often shivered. As the light creeped in from the tall glass windows of your room, you picked up that audio cassette and shivered it into the music system. It's your favourite Yanni. I didn't know him then. But I always thought I knew you. You were so gentle, so shy and so scared of hurting me. The moments were so full yet empty. They are heavier to me now as I travel back from that black and white time. Young and restless were we. Now you drive and your hands don't shiver. Something's changed. But I talk and I listen. You remember so much. There was so much you didn't see and so much I didn't see. I know circumstances can blind us. The air is tender again but nowhere close to the time when you showed me your tiny pet turtle. You placed him on your palm and asked me to touch it. Today you send me a messages. Then there was just the old-fashioned phone but you picked it up too late. Saxophone was romance and you gave Kenny G to me. All actions run smoothly through my head but it's the conversations that are muted. Through all the years there were letters, rides in the rain, there was touch, music and play. But just tiny thin threads of muted conversations. As I caress your hands with my eyes, you ask me if you can hold my hand. I allow. I guess I am just making up for the broken conversations.