I remember the day my dad taught me how to shave.
For him to take the time to instruct me
about anything was so unusual that even
while we stood there at the sink,
I thought I would remember it.
I wanted to remember it.
I wanted it to mean something like some kind
of boy becomes a man rite of passage.
Though I have to say
that kind of sentimentality is more my personality than my dad's.
I doubt he felt anything of the kind.
I still think about it some mornings when I shave.
Decades later, I remember every part of his instructions.
That I had to wet my face down
with hot water to soften the barely existent facial hair.
Which, you know,
were not the kind of man's whiskers that needed softening.
So I wondered if he knew what he was talking about.
He showed me how to hold the razor.
The length of the strokes.