Shiny Knuckles

My lips tingle with soft peppermint

while my nose tangles with nostalgia—

earthy lavender coats my knuckles,

reminding me of standing

at my father's bedside,

prying open a tin canister

of Burts Bee's hand salve,

cratered with fingerprints

that reveal how well-loved

and worn in it is.

The smell transports me

back to that bedroom as

I walk into its attached bathroom,

walls painted thickly with

tacky bumble bee yellow,

once grey like the bedroom.

Kohl's bathmats adorn the beige tile,

always new and fluffy

and mismatching the paint.

There were two sinks carved into

the off-white laminate countertop,

but only the left one

ever got used.

A scale sat near it,

pushed close to the wall.

I'd sneak onto it—

once or twice a day for a period—

and think I was doing something wrong.

I probably was.

It's so strange

being so far removed

from that bedroom and

the time I spent in it,

me and Dad and Anna

curled up over his

plush dark grey comforter,

taking turns reading pages

from those skinny books

with the gold foil spines

before bed.

Watching Dad grip the hard covers

open between us,

his big, hairy gorilla hands

gleaming with their

shiny knuckles.

I write this, pausing every now and then

to admire my knuckles shining

under the taper candlelight.

I glance at my scale,

pushed close to the wall.

I can't believe I'll

never be back there,

close to them like that again,

smelling earthy lavender and

staring at shiny reflective knuckles

and a bright red Yankee candle

that never got lit.

I want to be read to again

like a child.