Same worn leather pouch they came in

nearly two decades ago.

The largest clippers, the ones for toes,

sit in the middle

with the medium and small ones at their side,

awaiting their medals.

Dad started keeping his trophies

from his years of

Tae Kwon Do locked away from us.

Never missing his classes, he’s missed Mom’s birthday,

three years now,

to referee in some distant city.

At night he aches his way to bed, too tired to sit with us.

Or too uncomfortable—he’s never been good around strangers.

I remember when I knew him, he’d sit me on the bed, his old black metal trashcan

with its fading floral design beneath my feet, using the smallest clippers

on my calloused, small toes,

snipping

every

excess

piece of nail

down to where it grew out of the skin, not leaving anything behind to scratch him

when I curled up in their bed.

He’d count off each toe in rhyme. And as the last little piggy

went ‘wee wee wee’ all the way home, I’d giggle

and hug my stomach at the incoming tickles. Weekend afternoons he’d roll around

on our expensive, dirty carpet with our panting goldens, then my younger sister and I would

jump

off blue loveseats onto the pile.

Now

he rubs his forehead and asks

‘how much’

when a new bag of dog food comes home with Mom,

grumbles when the dogs need to go out.

Privately, each of us wonders

what’s washing him away, or why he hasn’t yet fought it back.

A Thursday morning dream I can’t remember

uneases me up the stairs. The ice machine’s missing its knob.

I feel for the switch by the smeared glass door

and squint at the twilight to see if it’s raining.

Dad’s up early,

studying his referee manual under the hanging towels and bras on the porch,

a golden’s chin resting across his lap

and under one remembered gentle hand.

9/4/09

Revised 7/22/13