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61 Washing My Father’s Hair He can’t take a shower because of his IV, the stitches on his hand. His whole body hurts, the kidney-shaped bruises on his side—plum lumps—the stiffness in his arms and legs. He bends his head into the sink, and I test the water’s temperature and spray his hair with the same gadget I use to rinse the dishes. His hair darkens from white to gray. I accidentally squirt my shirt. I suds him hard because I know it’s the one thing that might feel good. I once was small enough to take a bath in this same kitchen sink, not that I’m the same “I” anymore, our longest living cells lasting only ten years. I remember his wedding ring on the side of the soap dish and the way he wrapped me in a towel. Now his ring is jagged from the accident, not quite a circle anymore. I rinse him out fast when his back starts to cramp. I sit him down and rub his head as dry as I can. The comb makes rows where I used to practice the alphabet on his head. duhamelKtext.indd 61 12/1/08 11:15:22 AM ...

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