To Touch a Hand
by Brenda Shaffer-Shiring
The first time that he offered you his hand
You refused, and hid your hand behind your back,
Staring up at him with wide, two-year-old eyes
'Til he stared back, not knowing how formidable
His captain's visage made him, and you ran
To hide your face on Daddy's trouser leg.
He sighed, "Children," and your father laughed.
The second time that he reached out to you
You frowned, your arms crossed on your chest, and glared
With all your five-years' anger and your hate
For him who'd lived, and left your father fallen.
He tried to meet your eyes, but could not bear it,
And turned his face toward your father's grave.
He whispered, "Wesley." You did not reply.
When we came aboard his ship, you frightened him.
Did you know that? I doubt he knew, himself.
He wanted so to love his dear friend's son,
But feared himself rejected at the start.
Now certain that he could not deal with children
(Your lesson, dear), he turned from you again.
A hand not offered could not be refused.
But you, your hatred gone, slipped through his guard,
To become his Ensign Crusher, and he saw
You, blood of the man he would have died for,
Become a man who could look straight at him,
No fear, no anger. More, you shared his dreams
Of stars and wonders, joined him in his quest
As son he'd lacked, but never dared to want.
I watched this last time he reached out to you,
So weak, despite the life you'd given him
With your gift of water. Easy to evade
As he'd become, you chose not to deny him.
You, who'd crossed a gap of years and loss and pain,
Shared that crossing with him, took his hand.
He closed his eyes and smiled, at last at peace.
