I stood at the foot of the hospital bed.
Dad’d said, Now’s the time to come.

I’d seldom seen Grandpa off the farm,
never with sunken cheeks, frosted stubble.

Unsure what was expected of me, I stared.

From under the white cotton blanket,
his arthritic hand emerged, inched toward me.

As a child, I’d asked about the protruding knob:
a badly healed, broken wrist, caught in barn rope.

This time I only saw the hand, mute yet not silent,
measuring the cold years between us.

As if not mine, my hand reached out, clasped his.
He squeezed twice. I returned the heartbeat.

Only we knew what I’d just forgiven.