I put my hand on his shoulder there is no flesh there he wrote a note we never know when it will be the last time Dad it’s always only the first time nothing goes so distant as to break and nothing we have touched is ever finished
in this convalescent hospital there will be no convalescence this last time not for the first time he said I love you and I said I love you I might have hugged those jutting bones I went out the door and got on the plane
bones more than anything want to be tenderly touched they pretend to be finished things saying goodbye we didn’t touch that’s what it means to be an adult to have power to withhold
it wasn’t that no it wasn’t
I don’t know why I didn’t press my flesh against those surprised bones I do know
there is something in touch that draws a conclusion that brings us down to earth.