By Yuko Miller
I am shaving a dying man. I do not know him.
I begin at his cheekbone. A wheat field bends under the razor. The final surge of growth dulls the blade.
The razor pauses at his Adam’s apple. I wonder if he was a good man. In my hometown, a she-devil slits the throats of unfaithful lovers in their sleep. I picture crimson lather.
I falter at the corner of his mouth. The razor skims the contour. I want to give up. Then, from the depth of his coma, the tongue of the man pushes out the border of his lips.
Amazing story, brings back memories of working as an orderly at a nursing home 50 years ago. The old men were excited to see me because I knew how to shave them with a real razor, not the those new-fangled electric thingamabobs the female nurses used.
Thank you so much for sharing your razor story with me. When I write, I hope my words act as a door to the memories and experiences of others. Hearing how this piece crossed paths with your own life is exactly why I write. I am honored. And yes, those electric thingamabobs are utterly useless!
What an opening line! And what a beautiful story! Thank you.
Thank you so much! It means a lot to know the story found its way to you.
Lean and mean. Cut to the chase. 65 yrs ago as an Orderly I prepped shaved men for major surgery. Just as in your story, so much to learn in a few moments, in a few words. About the patient’s fears, and ,y fantasies.
Knowing that my words opened a space for your own reflections is the greatest reward I could ask for. Thank you for reading. Your memories have given my story a second life, and I am so grateful you shared them with me.
Beautiful, such imagery! Although a very different experience from your story, it brought me back to my dad’s final months when I gave him haircuts and trimmed his beard. Bittersweet memories, but an experience I wouldn’t trade for the world. Thank you!