I remembered his hands just now.
I donít know why.
Out of nowhere,
they were just there Ė
before me Ė
as real as if I could have reached out and touched them.
But of course, I would not have.
I tried to keep as far away from those hands as possible.
I saw them with the veins
crawling across the backs like blue worms
and that one thumb that had been injured
and was permanently deformed
that looked like a claw to me.
Those hands Ė
that brought my childhood to an end
that caused hurts that I still feel,
a lifetime later.
As soon as I saw those hands,
my breathing stopped,
my heart started racing,
I could see nothing else,
my stomach knotted up and flipped over.
Time stood frozen -
back years ago -
and I was trapped in a 5-year-old body
with those strange hands filling my vision,
blocking everything else out,
holding me hostage to his anger and sickness.
And now my hands are shaking
and my pulse is pounding so hard
that I canít believe that others canít hear it.
I am older now by decades than he was
when I first saw those hands.
But they still have the power
to terrify and paralyze me.
And I am still held prisoner
by those hands.
"That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. . . What will your verse be?" Robin Williams as John Keating in "Dead Poets Society"