When I was seven
my father offered his secretary
a ride home.
On the way, he pulled
to the side of a country road,
slumped over the steering wheel, died
of a cerebral hemorrhage.
That night my mother tells me
he is gone forever.
I numb, suspend
in dry shock.
-Remember everything he taught you.
-He taught me exactly how to dry
between my legs after a bath.
I’ll remember.
And I do:
I saw the towel forward and backward
on both sides of my genitals.
It works well,
leaves my crotch
feeling tingly.
(No. 41 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)
One of the few specific things I recall about my father was his instructing me how to towel between my legs. He and I would occasionally drive to a large, double-sized swimming pool in Murfreesboro, 30 miles southeast of our home in Nashville. On one of these outings, in the pool’s locker room, he imparted this wisdom. It was all I could think of in answer to my mother’s attempt to reassure both herself and me on the night he died.
This daily, post-showering ritual became part of my life long ago. Readying myself for a new day, an occasional shadow of grief or anger will surprise me, all these years later.
(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)
