He recognized my hands

I came back to the grocery store
a few hours later
to get some extra things,
wearing a jacket this time
because it was colder
and my hair in a bun
because I was done with work for the day.

And yet he recognized me,
the cashier.

“You were here earlier,” he said,
in the friendly way a person
would comment to a stranger
about unusual weather.

I asked him,
from behind my mask,
if he had developed a sharper memory
for people’s eyes,
since they’re all he sees.

“No, it’s their hands,” he said.
“You place your groceries
down so peacefully.”

And what I wanted to say
was how did you blast open my heart
in such a quiet way.

But I just smiled
behind my mask,
and said “thank you,”
aching to know
how my hands looked now
that they felt
so seen.