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Washing the body of my Father
Who has just died,
I notice his hands, and how small and pitiful
They appear to me
And how very large they seemed
When I was a child.
I think back on those hands
Teaching me to scramble eggs
And instructing me on the finer points
Of broiling what he called
Kansas City Club steaks.
Poor little fingers now,
Limp and chalk-white
Unable to grip my hand any longer.
In recent days,
Those hands curled and uncurled endlessly,
Knuckles whitened with the futile fight
Of cancer and pain.
I can still see his fingers splayed out
Frantically groping for something.
Washing my dead fathers' hands, I realize
This time is the last I will have with him;
The last time I will ever touch him.
He has gone from us.
He left life in sharp, unrelenting agony, and
All I have learned and studied
Could not help him
Or save him.
I could not ease his suffering.
I'm so sorry, Daddy.
I'm afraid I let you down.
None of my care plans worked for you.
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