by Ted Thomas Jr.
Cold wind.
I help my father
into the shower
with his good hand
he grips my arm for support.
Inside he sits like Buddha
on a plastic stool
and waits for me
to begin.
I drench him
with warm water,
soap his head, his back,
the flabby stomach,
the private parts
private no more.
I had not before seen my father's
nakedness, nor the changing
contour of his being,
his growing helplessness.
His brown skin glistens
and I think of him
as a young man on the night
of my conception:
Panting, capable, shining
with sweat and definition,
the soft hands of my mother
grasping his shoulders.
I pat him dry,
he lets me dress him
in the white
hospital clothes,
oil his hair,
put him to bed
and forgive him.
Photo Credit: Public Domain