The sun has come.
Somewhere far on the eastern border
of my existence she has begun her
wild haired dance across the sky signaling the dawn of
a new day.
Slowly, I rise.
Feeling every ache and pain and fiber of my humanity,
I great a gray wash environment.
This stillness, haunting, like the watercolor left unfinished in the
closet.
Joints creak like gears.
Rusted from neglect, they scream their displeasure breaking
the silence and solidifying my existence.
My neck strains against
this shackle of a belly pulling from my shoulders
forcing me to notice my feet, almost for the first time in years.
Time has not been kind to them.
Twisted and gnarled like the roots of the tree my
father planted in my youth.
Dark skin, dried and scarred from years of taking them
in and out of socks, sit dumb and silent as mules waiting
for my command.
Toes, blistered from a lifetime of being stubbed on desk
corners and floor boards, reach blindly for the
fine fibers of the blue carpet at the edge of the
bed.
Knees shaking, like the screen door on my grandmother's porch,
from the weight of my distended middle force me to
grab for the nightstand.
Driftwood hands stumble across the well worn surface
remembering every nail and knot and grain.
More than most will ever forget.

This steam feels good against my skin.
I leave my hands to their chore,
letting them travel the same course without thought.
lather
scalp
face
that funny spot behind my ears mama would rub to soothe
my pain
neck
arms, first left then right,
stomach
top of my aging genitals to the deepest portion of
my inner thighs
down my legs
top of my back letting the soap run down my spine
and between my buttocks.

From the corner of my right eye
a face catches my attention.
Not the face of a stranger, no I remember this face.
Like old friends meeting again
for the first time, smiles stretch gently across
our faces.
We reach for each other, tracing
the laugh lines etched deep in our foreheads remembering
the origin of each.
This is not a stranger's face.
No, this is the face that woke me at the dawn of
each new day and stood watch in my sleep.
These
eyes are not my own.
In another lifetime they
smiled at my very existence.
Set in stone, they shone like stars on my first
day of school.
I remember everyone saying I was the spitting image of my father.
Youthful pride denied their words, but here he stands.
Smiling back at me.
Hello father.
My it's been such a long time since we met.
How have you been?