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One day,

I will come to visit you again. You will have

a rolled up washcloth

or actual therapy soft carrots

inserted in your palms

to prevent pain and slow the progression

of your contracting hands

and to keep your nails from cutting your palms. Will

you know me? I will adjust your

washcloths, your hand carrots, I

will remember your fingers going

lightly over the guitar, and what it was like to listen,

not knowing if that sound you made was what you intended

what you heard inside

and tried to make come out. I will kiss your cheek. I will

run a washcloth under hot water

and clean your eyes, wiping from the corners outwards, then down

your same eyes, and smile lines, your same you. I'll

give you a sip, and tell you swallow, swallow, while running one finger

under your chin and down your throat

to cue you. I'll say it in the same tone I used to give you

advice in, when I thought I knew better than you. If she loves you

and you know she's not it for you

let her go. Get a physical. Get one every year. Juice is better than plain

water, if you've been

vomiting a lot. Start with that.

I'll arrange your hair, your sheets and quilt. I'll talk to you

just the same and tell you

at some point

that you're an asshole

and you make me furious. I will

delight in your company. Here, a little vaseline for your lips. I will

whisper a few sweet things in your ear

good man, good-hearted soul. You are loved.

I'll always visit. I'll always come.

I'll tend you some, and then sit, and hold your hand, and

rub it gently with my thumb

and tell you stories. True ones and old ones

and ideas I have that you'd have said about once

that is absurd,

that'll never happen.