As I say goodbye, I rub my hand
on the sharp blades of my father’s shoulder.
Like all his bones, they only wear
the thinnest drape of flesh, and I realize
this may be the last time I see him alive.
I don’t cry. He taught me that. It was a lesson
I resisted again and again. Instead,
I wait for sappy commercials, weddings, any time
someone else cries, like when the figure skaters from Japan
almost earned a perfect score. I only watched because
my mom and brother wanted to, and what else could I do,
my shift in hospice, my long weekend of care, the patient asleep.
I don’t really get it, but I do get that man on his knees,
shuddering in his partner’s arms, unburdened and unashamed.
Or, I want to get it, want to also be so unburdened and unashamed.
Want to be held and then to stand and throw my hands in the air
while tears still stream down my face.
I wonder if this is what my dad wants too.
To be held while he is vulnerable,
and then, to be released.