To be lost #Poem by Abigail George

 

I help my father to the bathroom
His brown hands are soft & warm, two suns,
two volcano lovers, two brown eggs, two birds. He sits,
perched falcon-like, on the toilet seat. There are many muscles
in the human body, he says. You can see the creation
of God with every movement of each muscle, he continues.
I make conversation to preserve his dignity
but I am also genuinely interested in what he has to say.
He is like sea-glass in my hands, fragile, breakable
One, Two, Three, stand, I say, hold onto the door
I pull up the adult diapers, his shirt is damp & stained with food
His body spills into my patient hands. I am gentle,
concern in my eyes, the brown eyes that he gave me.
I help him put his pajama pants on and we go and eat Sunday lunch
I arrange an apron over his chest, tuck it in his shirt. I hand him a plate,
Oros in a mug. Before I eat, I go to his bedroom. The room where my parents
sleep in separate beds. I place linens where the sheets are wet like dew, I make
up his bed, and fold up the blankets. Do you want to watch Joel Osteen, I ask?
I stand in the doorway, watching the ocean that is my family.
No, he says. I am fine here.