Hands

His hands looked old. Older than he had remembered them being. They were dry with a slight white ash in the cracks, and they hurt when he clasped them together in prayer. He sat there bent over in the hard plastic chair, elbows resting on his knees, staring at what now seemed like a stranger’s fingers. They weren’t his. Couldn’t be. He didn’t remember how they got this way, but here they were, folded in front of him, resting but tired.

It was a short walk from his apartment. But he didn’t trust the neighborhood enough to leave his clothes unattended. The last time he did that, a pair of jeans and his favorite hoodie went missing. He really loved that hoodie. He gave a deflated chuckle remembering it. And besides, the apartment was small and lonely, and too silent. Here, especially at this time of night, it was quiet, but the hum of the machines eased his mind. It often let him drift, in thought, to sleep, sometimes even somewhere else. It wasn’t the solitude he minded. It was the loneliness. The secluded feeling that came when nothing was present and so every memory would resurface.

Days were much better. The labor kept his focus and rarely let his mind wander. The physicality of the grind was so different from the life he once knew, but at least it was honest. The nights were different. They could be long, silent, and full of thoughts. Thoughts he wanted to forget but they would never let him go. Thoughts like, how people so devoted could become so vicious. The way they were quick to turn at the suggestion of accusations. Not even proof, just a rumor. But that was where rumors had the most power. Unspoken. At least to the right people. Burrowed under conversations. Glances. Whispers that sounded sincere but really were full of allegations.

“This yours?”

The voice snapped him out of his memory. A scruffy looking woman pointed at his basket and detergent.

“Yeah,” he said as his boot heel pushed it closer to his chair.

She turned to walk away, and he noticed she moved with a hobble that appeared to be lingering from years ago. She put some dirty clothes in a machine but nothing else. He thought about just ignoring her, this late at night who knows what sort of people come in a place like this. But old habits remain just that.

“I have some extra that I don’t need,” he said handing her the detergent.

Her eyes looked at the label, and she gave a frown. “I don’t like that kind, do you have anything else?”

His first reaction was to turn around and go back to his chair. Beggars can’t be choosers, was what he was going to say. But he didn’t.

“No, sorry, this is all I have.”

Sorry? Why the hell did he say that? Again, habits.

She just kind of shrugged and took the bottle from his hand. Emptied it inside the machine then closed the lid and walked away to her corner where the shopping cart waited.

He stood there holding the empty bottle, dumbfounded but not surprised, wondering what the hell had happened. The taking. The dismissal. Ungrateful. Nothing was ever enough.

He wasn’t even thinking about detergent anymore.

Nothing felt as powerful as the adoration of a congregation.

Except maybe the devastation of losing it.