My Father's Feet
My father's feet were a
mystery to me. He
never walked barefoot
or even took off his socks
where I could see. I never
understood why he always
had his feet covered
when everyone else enjoyed
going barefoot warm summer
days. I fantasized his feet
must be ugly, but couldn't
imagine how. I finally saw
my father's feet when he lay
in his hospital bed dying.
I wonder if he was embarrassed
to have me see his feet then
or whether like so many other
things at that time no longer
mattered. They were not
remarkable feet, not worthy
of hiding, but now it didn't
seem right or proper to look
at what he had always protected
from my view. I turned my eyes
away. Funny how dying changes
things. And doesn't.
I like this poem of your father's feet Mary, and the vulnerability and oddness that comes arounhd death. It feels a very close to the bone poem. And I can imagine you as a girl wondering why your father covered his feet at all times.
ReplyDeleteI think the covered foot thing for men may have been a part of the times, or perhaps the northern location. I never recall my father wearing sandals or going barefoot--just not something he did but i never thought about why. Just seemed to be the way he functioned. LOL He was from N. Dak.
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