Poignant Moments

Every morning, for the last month, I see Dad's Braun shaver on my bathroom shelf.  When my siblings went through Dad's personal items, my husband, Jay, requested the shaver. We put it beside our stack of bathroom towels, knowing it needed cleaning before using or storing, but neither of us doing the job.  There it stayed a daily reminder of Dad.    

Immediately after his death, each glance of the shaver brought a wrench to my gut. Later, a tug in the heart.  Then, with each tug came memories: me as an awkward preteen watching Dad shave at the laundry sink, knowing each motion he would make, eagerly anticipating the opening of the cabinet and the splashing on of Aqua Velva. How I loved the smell of Aqua Velva mixed with the smell of his morning coffee!  Singing the Aqua Velva TV jingle with my sister, I was proud Dad used Aqua Velva because "there's something about an Aqua-Velva man." I remember watching Dad contort his mouth while shaving the cleft in his chin. How did he get all the hair out of that cavern of a cheek dimple?

Now, as I wonder if my brothers also watched him shave thus learning the manly morning ritual, I absent-mindedly pick up the shaver.  Suddenly, I'm propelled to the last memory of holding this in my hand shaving Dad a few days before he died.  Tears come as I remember his exhaustion from just moving his mouth around for me. I catch myself imitating his mouth shifting left as I hold the shaver up to the right side of my chin. Sad spell broken, I laugh, then purposely turn  it on and shave a swath of hair from my own cheek. I'm comforted with this mixing of my fine, feminine facial hair and his wiry, white beard stubble.  

Cupping the Braun in my hands, I think about him losing the ability to care for himself. I wonder if that was as hard for him as it was for mom. Even with advancing dementia mom could put words to her feelings.  "It's not right that daughters have to help a mom shower and comb her hair."   Dad never voiced much, but a sigh or a quickly exchanged glance communicated much tenderness, gratitude, vulnerability and pain.  Such unguarded glances usually brought tears to both pairs of eyes. Alas, I often opted not to catch too many of them.  I so wanted to protect his dignity.  I feel some regret over my opting out now, but I also respect the choice knowing such intimacy is both precious and sometimes too poignant to prolong.  I'm incredibly grateful for moments Dad allowed us to see his heart.  

Inhaling deeply, fortified with sweet memories, I'm ready to clean the shaver. I snap up the trimmer blade and stubble falls like snow. I'm shocked at the amount!  Each shake brings another cascade of hair snow until my sink is coated.  Again, tears prick my eyes. Dad was always so fastidious with his stuff. Illness and aging require much letting go. I unhook the little brush inside and begin brushing out more stubble.  Not long ago, Dad's left hand cradled this shaver as mine is doing, as his right hand brushed.  I can almost feel his rhythm.  Reverently, I brush the shaver clean, enjoying the scent of shaver and falling hair. 

Shaver cleaned, I run my hand through the fallen stubble. It's beautiful and gritty. Dad's DNA in my sink.  Related DNA in my body, in the hand hovering over the spigot. I feel connected. This moment is wondrous, yet utterly ordinary.   Like life, like death. Like every moment I choose awareness. 

I turn on the water and gently wash away my father's hair. Good bye again, Dad. I love you.
Sharon

 ~~~~~

"You're my kind of guy, I want you so,
baby everything about you is go, go, go,
With Aqua-Velva lotion the romance began
because there's something about an Aqua-Velva man!"    (TV jingle as I remember it. :)



Listen to your father who begot you, and do not despise your mother when she is old.
Proverbs 23.22

I pressed my father's hand and told him I would protect his memory. My father smiled and passed away to the spirit land. Chief Joseph