Silly Cube

I bought a new stress ball,
my therapist recommended it.

I like how firm it is.
How the edges
of the soft cube
press into my palm.

You thought it was cool.
I remember how your eyes lit up.

I let you borrow it for a while,
just a little while.
Maybe an hour
or two.

And you returned it,
just like you said you would.

But it's different now.
Your hands are bigger than mine.
Your grip like steel,
as it was forged in the fierce battle of life.

My hands are not like yours.
Mine are soft,
and small.
Breakable.

The cube isn't firm anymore.
I miss it.

The way the world changed us impacts how we change the world.

I am sorry that
your hands grew tough,
and your grip became unbreakable,
because too much had slipped from your grasp.

I am sorry that
my hands grew used
to letting things go,
because too much had slipped from my grasp.



I cannot be mad at you,
but I miss the firm edges
on that silly
cube.

Maybe I can give it to you.
Perhaps you need it,
much more
than I do.