touch

i remember my father's finger cocking upwards and my nails digging into the palm of my right hand. i had missed. this game decorates my childhood memories. #35's left leg curls up against his right leg, which remains extended. to the curled leg is attached something resembling a foot. this shriveled hunk of flesh wraps around the rusty bar of his bed, which he never gets up from and will die in. he is blind and cannot speak. with his one tooth he eats more than most of the other patients, and grunts when we wants more. we play games together. i say 'we' but i'm not sure if he knows that we're playing. the first time i held his hand he dug his nails into my skin. two thoughts battled for attention. disease and the desire to be touched. i glide my index finger against the palm of his hand and he tries to grab it. he is sometimes better at this than i was as a child. i feed him sweets. we follow the grunting technique, but when i open his mouth to check if he has swallowed i find his tongue clenched against his throat. behind his tongue is the off white, green centered piece he had been working on. i smile and hope he feels my face-stretching resonating through our fingertips. the patients really like getting massaged with oils. sometimes i wonder if it's really a massage they want. we wash their clothes, serve them food and wash their dishes. they ask us for chai when they know there isn't any. they get upset when we don't understand their requests, which are in bengali. but something is happening here, something i also have no words for.