Scraping

I wish I could shave my father again
more than I wish I could shave myself.

To see him puff out his cheek with his tongue
and let me carefully drag the disposable over it.

To see him impassively sit
as I dragged the razor over the skin

hoping not to cut him.
Hoping I never cut him more than I had.

To clean up and put it away till the next time.
To hear the phone call on the Thursday morning

that he was gone at last. To relax and miss
nothing of it until today — three years later,

pangs of regret or something similar
ahead of my own surgery — they are going

to scrape my eyes clean — and I am thinking
of my father, thinking of him as I wait.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T