I threw away your razors today.
You liked them dull so as to scrape your skin instead of cut
Because sometimes the trembling in your right hand caused a razor to draw blood.
In the end you shaved double handed, left hand holding your right,
With cheap, dull blades.
You shaved at the bedroom sink, spread your legs to balance,
Your short, powerful, walked a trillion miles legs
That climbed gates and straddled horses,
Legs that looked good in Wrangler jeans,
And carried you to barns and pickup trucks and tractors
And me.
I’d watch you standing there,
Memorizing your back so straight and strong.
Hard work took its toll, you suffered pain for decades,
But your back was safe and sweet to press against
When the moon shone through the window.
It stormed last night.
“Nearly 3 ½ inches of rain!” I would have gladly reported to you.
“Rain like that on the last day of July! I can’t believe it!” you would have answered.
So I said it all aloud today, my part and yours,
But it rang hollow in my ears.
I found a banty hen sitting on eggs in the barn down in the orange barrel,
You know, where we store hand implements.
I was searching for the pickaxe
To break up the solid packed grain at the bottom of the bin you built.
Moving tools around in the barrel I heard
A mad hen squawk and that’s when I found her.
You would have laughed to have seen her, too many eggs under her,
Looking up in defiance at my rude interruption.
“We’ll move her to a better spot,” you would have said,
And so I will but I wish you were here to tell me where.
Kate stopped by.
She brought carrots from her garden for the goats, carrots too small to can,
And 2 boxes of green tangled up carrot tops.
You always liked Kate.
She makes the best salsa you ever tasted.
She checks on me. As does Cindy and Cherie and Roger and others.
So many check on me. Sometimes I reply to their messages but mostly I don’t.
I appreciate them. So much.
I am like a wounded animal licking my wounds.
They are patient and understanding, offering me lunch
And hands to hold
And tell me it’s OK to cry when they ask how I am.
I’m trying to move forward ever so slowly.
So I threw away your razors today.
Except for one.
I hold it it my hand as you held it in yours
Just to touch where your hand has been.
That’s crazy and I know it.
But for tonight a cheap, dull razor
Is as close to you as I can get.
Judy Domeny Bowen is a retired art teacher who lives on a small farm near Rogersville, Missouri, where she raises Boer goats. She is a singer of traditional Ozark folksongs and also writes original songs about her experiences as a teacher and farmer. Having recently lost the love of her life, Layman Essary, she is dealing with her grief by writing about him.