Table of Contents
   Sometimes I can still feel my right hand, like a best friend; weighted, warm.
   Sometimes Mom looks for a tissue or the book lying among my covers and I reach for it, then I remember I cannot reach with that hand ever again.
   Sometimes a prickle crawls across my cheek, and that right hand tries to rise from the grave, moved to scratch. The fingers, palm, wrist, and arm that I remember don't know enough to know peace.