I
At first, to let him know I’m here,
I start with song, a kind of coo,
or croon. My voice breaks,
morning waking into lullaby.
I test the water at my wrist,
here, the bare pulse point.
Not hot. Not cold. Just warm.
I dip the soft infant cloth into
the wash basin, swish, and squeeze.
Damp, not dripping. I bring
some order to our routine, begin
with crown, brow, temples.
Traveling the topography
of the face—ears, eyes,
mouth, nose—all our animal
pathways, I grow humbled
by the whole of us, this space
I find myself within, caring for
another being, my newborn
at home, only a few days old,
a kind of gift that overwhelms,
to know we’ve only just begun
to say hello.
II
At first, to let him know I’m here,
I start with song, a kind of coo,
or croon. My voice breaks,
morning waking into lullaby.
I test the water at my wrist,
here, the bare pulse point,
make sure it’s warm, just right.
I dip the soft terry washcloth into
the basin, swish, and squeeze.
Damp, not dripping. I bring
some order to our routine, begin
with crown, brow, temples.
Traveling the topography
of the face—all the tender
pathways to sound, sight,
taste, smell, I’ve grown humbled
by the whole of us, the space
I’m standing in, caring for
this other being, my father only
days from passing, here at home,
a strange kind of gift. It overwhelms,
to know we’ve only just begun
to say goodbye.
