Scratching Dad’s Back

Scratching Dad’s Back

The desire to be of help 

is not the problem these days.

The hurdle is knowing exactly 

How to help a helpless situation.

I feel this tension with my father

In an almost omnipresent way

As his cancer closes in on him,

Compressing his bloating abdomen

Like a red-tailed boa constrictor.

 

“Do you need anything, Dad?”

I ask this question almost knowing

Dad’s answer in advance.

He shakes his head, closes his eyes,

And mutely indicates the displeasure

Of having so many pressing needs

With so few pathways to assist

In having those needs suitably met.

 

But there is a crack in the door

I discovered almost serendipitously,

A ram in the thicket as it were.

A way to support my ailing father

With an offering so obvious

It almost makes me bashful

To extend the childlike gift.

 

A back rub.

 

All these years I imagined these 

End-of-life moments 

That would confront us,

Preparing to meet their hostility

With the force of my imagination.

I dreamt up just the right words

I would say to summon strength.

Just the right actions to oblige

The indisposed psyche to rise up.

Just the right presence to reach deep

Into the soul with solace and solstice both.

 

But alas, all my best intentions

Are as filthy and futile rags

Compared to the grace-gift

Of scratching my dad’s back,

Pushing back against the darkness of jaundice,

Battling the buildup of bilirubin

With everything that is within me.

 

It’s all that I can give.

 

“That feels good, Jay.”

My dad sighs with pleasure 

As he leans into the pressure 

Of my course, lissome fingertips.

And you know the crazy thing?

It feels good to me, too.

 

A profound that is found

On the other side of simple.