Straight Back Chair

By Dan Bogey

 

My father sits on a straight back chair 

In the old kitchen 

And stares at something

Only he can see 

My sister is the one who stayed 

So I do as she asks:

A haircut 

 

The scissors and comb

Move tentatively over wispy white hair

Clipping close to the scalp  

I finally lower the tools 

As if to say it is done 

My sister says:

More

 

Closer yet

Careful not to nick him

I try to recall the last time I touched his skin

Certainly not a kiss

More likely a hearty handshake 

 

I brushed away the fine hairs

Gathered in the wrinkles on his neck below his ears

The skin is soft, supple

I had imagined dry flakes

Fluttering to the floor at the slightest touch

 

My sister nods

And I move in front of him

Saying “How’s that, Pop?”

He continues to look through me

To the wall behind my head

At a world far from the straight back chair