I went to see my mother
who nodded toward my father.
See how he sits in his chair,
she said from her chair.
We look at him together.
My mother sighs.
He's bleeding, I explain.
Blood's running down the arm
of his chair, I get up and say.
I go for a Kleenex.
My mother sits and sews.
He's been digging his arm all week,
she says.
He won't listen.
And when he gets mad at me,
he gets up and farts.

I pat his wounds.
He takes scissors from his pipestand
and begins to dig his nails.
Why? I ask.
To make the spots go away, he says.
I look at my mother.
See, she nods to me.
But--I start explain...
My voice fades like his memory.
I dress his wounds.
I take away the scissors.
I hand him his pipe.

He hasn't bathed in a month,
my mother tells me.
He won't, she pronounces.
Ready for a bath? I ask him.
No.
But he gets up when I go for him,
and he doesn't fart.
I draw the bath.
He changes to a robe I hand him.
He enters the bath.
I try to direct him from outside the door:

        Are you washing?
        I don't hear any SPLASHING, I tease.
        Do you want some help?
                                                Yes.
I shampoo his hair.
How'm I doin'? I ask.
Good, he says.
I wash his neck, his back, his chest.
He takes orders.
Arms up!
And up his arms go.
Foot please.
He presents me with a gnarled foot.
Thick, yellow, turned-up nails overlap
corns and calluses.
I try to stand him up.
His wet arm around me, we falter,
his feet roller skating in the tub.

Somehow I get him out,
pat his thin frame dry,
help him into his robe,
and return him to his chair
where we stare at his feet.
He never said anything about his feet,
my mother says.
My father reaches for the scissors.
I took them away, I tell him.

The home care nurse comes to fill out forms.
I have to ask you a few questions.
OK with you?
OK, he says with a laugh.
What state do you live in?
No answer.
What month is it?
Silence.
I'll give you a hint, the nurse teases.
We just had a new year.
Pause.
It's winter, he says.
How old are you? she asks.
Over 15, he laughs.

The next day I take my father to a foot doctor who raises him up in a chair and
trims the gnarls and then lowers my father so he can stand.

I feel like a new man, said my father at 91.