What the Hands Know

She took the diaper bag,

the one with the broken zipper she'd been meaning to fix

since March.

She took his blanket — the yellow one,

not the blue one he'd left behind,

which she only realized later,

which she did not go back for.

She took her phone with eleven percent battery.

She took her keys.

She did not take her good coat.

The car was cold.

He was asleep in the backseat,

One hand open the way children's hands open in sleep,

like they are deciding, even then,

what to hold and what to let go.

She drove with both hands on the wheel.

She drove the way you drive

when you are not sure

If you are really doing this

But your hands have already decided

And your hands are smarter than your fear.

The city at 2 a.m. is full of lights

that don't ask anything of you.

Traffic signals are changing for no one.

A diner sign. A yellow glow.

She had twelve dollars and a half tank of gas

and a sister three hours north

who had said whenever, I mean it, whenever

and meant it

and never thought she'd have to mean it

and meant it anyway.

She practiced what she'd say.

I just need a few days.

I'm sorry to just show up.

He was asleep the whole drive; he was fine.

She practiced

not saying the other things.

The shape of a hand.

The particular sound a door makes

when it isn't just a door anymore.

She had gotten very good

at not saying things.

That was the skill the years had given her

And she was done with it now.

She was putting it down.

She was leaving it in the car.

Her sister opened the door before she knocked.

Had been awake. Had known.

No questions. Just the hallway light,

and her sister's arms,

and the boy transferred sleeping

from shoulder to shoulder

like something precious being passed

across a great distance,

I've got him, I've got him,

I've got him,

go ahead and cry.

She cried.

Three hours of not crying

came out all at once

in a kitchen that smelled like her childhood,

her sister's hand on her back,

moving in small circles

the way their mother had done

when they were sick,

when the world was the size of a bedroom

and someone who loved you

knew how to make it smaller.

In the morning, he woke up in a new place

and looked around with the serious face

he made when he was thinking something through.

He found her eyes.

He decided it was fine.

He said juice

And she said yes

and that was the whole of it,

That was everything,

the world beginning again

in an ordinary kitchen

with a boy who wanted juice

and a woman who stood up

and got it.

She did not know what came next.

She knew there were forms,

and phone calls, and fear

that didn't have the decency to leave

just because she had.

She knew there would be nights

that found her anyway.

She knew she'd second-guess.

She knew the word fine

would take years to mean what it used to mean.

But the juice was cold.

The morning was quiet.

Her son was eating cereal

one piece at a time, with great concentration,

as if this were important work,

which she was beginning to understand

It was.

As if simply being here,

in a kitchen,

in the morning,

soft and ordinary and safe,

was nothing.

Was, in fact,

the whole thing.

Was enough.