"Covered with gloves while I held your hand and touched your shoulder to comfort you like your family can't, to calm you down and let you know you're not alone, to grip your hands when things turn bad, gripping with encouragement, telling you through my hands you're strong, you can make it through even though I know that might not be true. Hours later, I carefully remove my gloves, my mask, and goggles. Aching, sweaty, cracked cuticles, bleeding as I wash them again. They grip the steering wheel as I drive home, they wipe away the tears as I cry, they open the garage. The garbage bag and towel are waiting. I wrap the towel around me..."