When it’s directed at me, not so much.
*
Yesterday, when I was old, a lady held my hand.
I had come in from the cold.
She noticed my white hands.
Her hands wrapped my left hand.
Startled, I wanted to pull away.
My armor penetrated.
Excuses: I’m OK. Raynaud’s is mild. The room will warm me up.
I gently pulled my hand.
She released.
I don’t need your kindness, unsaid.
It’s funny
I had just come from my weekly two hours at the Food Pantry.
Where I wrapped my arms around boxes of beef.
To this protest room.
Where my new friend and I joined thirty others speaking for roadside vegetation.
With our hands wrapped around signs.
Kindness aimed at others is excellent.
When I’m the target?
Perhaps I’m old enough to be young again.
