The Final Part

I am a part of you
And yet I do not know the whole.
My hands
Reflect your hands
In the hot still water
Of a summer pool
I grope for tinkering tools
And feathers
From the right sized bird
To oil the tiny springs
Of clocks
That tick the days
Away
And know that you
Are doing this
With me
Because I am a part of you.

You had no hatred
Of a living thing
Only a hurt
When the wound
Was from the kin
And I must carry
That same wound
Which will not heal.

I touch the tinsel
Of a brittle tree
Piled with gifts
I know you gave;
I hear the laughter
When too many scarves
Appear
And watch the eyelids
Almost close
Over your brown-green eyes.
I too am proud
Of those who are a part of us.

And then the time comes
That you must go
And much of me
Goes with you
I know not where.
I ask
When I must go
Will the final rending part
Be as you went
To heal the whole?