Sharp

My father talks of razors and points to the hallway.

“I know she took my razor,” he says. “I need to shave.”

He spits into a Kleenex and fiddles with his call button.

“They won’t let you have sharp things in nursing homes,” I say. “Don’t worry. They’ll shave you.”

“Who the hell are they?” he says. “Just get my razor back.”

I sit for a while, then say goodbye. Outside his room, a woman in a wheelchair cradles a plastic doll in her brittle arms.

“Baby needs a hair cut,” she says. “Can you get me my scissors?”

Photo Credit: Mark Bonica