Behind the Ears

Years after, when he was sick, when dying,when he had in fact died three times on the tableonly to be brought back, his heart jumpstartedlike a battery in one of his old, busted pickupshe worked on with greasy fingers, grimeblackening the tips of his longish fingernails,my father told me he was sorry, damn sorry,about the time with the scrub brush and my ears.It was a Tuesday just before school at St. Paul’safter complaints had been sent home about meand my ripped uniform pants, smudged shirt,my hair unkempt too long on my collar.Yet he focused exclusively on the dirtbehind my ears, pulled me into the bathroom,grabbed the wire brush he used for his nails,and began scrubbing the soft skin of my neck.He scrubbed as if sanding a two-by-four,holding the back of my head with the free hand,but the grime remained even as he drew blood.Only when I cried out did he notice the dirtbehind my ears was instead fine dark hairs.All his years my father carried this with him.With other crimes he was able to forgive himself,convince himself of the justice of those beatings,but this one nagged him for the injustice,and so now, dying, he stood before me,asking forgiveness, holding out his handshe couldn’t get clean no matter how he scrubbed.