A porcelain

My grandpa explores my hand like an antique tea cup. He has blinded the eyes, and the memories too. I say in the mind “Continue up the arm and the shoulder, and you reach my face. I’m here.”  Touching my hand to make sure of the thickness and the texture, he screams out for somebody to be near. My hand becomes a porcelain. I say “I’m here” out loud. I am divided into the voice and the porcelain. No longer the whole.