My grandfather puts his hand out.
At school,
last time Martin
got in my face,
he called me a wimp,
told me I couldn’t
play baseball anyway.
When the teacher heard it,
she made us talk about it.
I didn’t really talk,
but I nodded a lot.
At the end,
she made us stand up,
face each other,
and shake hands
even though we didn’t want to.
I wanted to believe
that would solve everything.
But this has to be different
because nobody is making them do it.
My grandfather steps forward
and puts out his hand
and my father puts out his,
but when he does,
my grandfather reaches in
with sudden strength
and pulls him in tight.
Maybe this is what a handshake
is supposed to be like,
because they look happy,
like they haven’t been
for a long time.