The last time I touched my father is not the one I'll cherish. At the funeral, in the open coffin, his body was cold, preserved for this final farewell. His face caked with stage make-up.
I'll remember other warmer touches. In the past year when he said little, I was charmed by our hand-holding as we walked slowly, me gently tugging, my tow cable arm aching from the stretch back. In the gentle caress of our hands, Dad's touch spoke with affection. Often in my own head, I'm surprised how much these memories are from the body.
In my youth, the language of touch was having my back scratched as I laid across my father's lap. As I got older, he shifted to rubbing my bare feet. Both undeniably pleasurable for me, and selflessly generous on his part.
After my mother died and he moved to Columbia near me, I had a sense of duty and service toward him. I owed him. I hope I shared some sense of his selflessness.
Service has a devotional sense to it – of worship, of watching. I was like the acolyte who had a job to do, at the expected time, a part of the team. My time was now, in the twilight years of his life, while there was still light to let shine. While we were both warm to the touch.