Handshake

I have shaky hands.
I don’t remember it always being that way.
There were times when I was nervous holding a bat with my father watching,
and I wanted to hit the ball if only to see his face.
But I never tried like I could have,
like I wish I had.
I hated the pain from the crack of the bat—
that sudden, sharp sting that resonated like a chord,
that rattled through the bones.
There were other times in auditions that I tensed up in a sweat.
The instrument that was so easily a part of me became a void from me completely.
And then there were the women.
A story perhaps.
But, now I have these shaky hands
to remind me of my past;
to remind me of all the things I could have done
if I had just stood still.

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