this afternoon
i sheared her remaining patchy hair
with a wahl rechargeable clipper
took her chemo downy down
down to a number 4
then to a number 2
there are so many bald spots peeking through
peek a boo—i see skin!

it was my dad’s clipper
the night of his death i was alone in his
assisted-living studio bathroom
i found the clipper at the bottom of some tangled drawer
and buzz cut my own hair, maybe a number 2
some kind of solitary mourning ritual
i know we jews are supposed to rip our clothing
but maybe we are supposed to buzz cut our hair too

it was cincinnati summer, july, hot when he died
i brought the clipper back to our evergreen state
out in the backyard i’d
use it on our old black dog, about a number 4 setting
he’d get real quiet, wary of the blade, but
also knew i’d never hurt him
he’d sigh—giving into the inevitable . . .
can dogs sigh? seems he did—

before they came to gurney his body away
i’d clipped some of my dad’s hair
brought it back
wrapped in a kleenex
and where a confluence of trunks meets
in the base of the maple tree
tucked his white hairs into the living wood
the tree just a few feet from
where our dog would be warily clipped
for his summer doggie do
father gone 6 years now
our dog, 5 years

today a few feet away, my wife on our porch swing
blue towel around her shoulder, late afternoon
it’s june but she’s cold
running a slight chemo-induced fever
the cool breeze scatters and scurries
her hair snippings about
on the porch’s worn cedar deck

wahl rechargeable clipper
once more we’re barbering
one of my loves and
soon—
too soon i fear
the sun
will be setting

∞

From the Spring 2013 issue of Inquiring Mind (Vol. 29, No. 2)

© 2013 Robert D. Lovitt