It’s never goes away,
the callus where my pencil
presses against my knuckle,
a subtle bump from decades
of scribbling words on blank
pages. I like it, this bump born
of friction, of holding, some
small testament to all
those patient hours
of wondering what might
emerge. If the heart could
grow a callus from loving,
there would be a soft bump
that began even before you
were born, a tribute to all
those hours of holding you
and feeling the rub as I change,
as you change, years
of patiently watching
the glorious script of your
life appear on the blank
pages of the years,
these years that
have molded me
into the shape
of devotion.