Eau Sauvage by Joan Currie

On a trip to Paris,
after a college year abroad,
I bought my father
a bottle of
Eau Sauvage aftershave.

I don’t know why.
Perhaps I was seduced by the
elegant Christian Dior
fragrance counter.
Or was it a friend’s urging?

He wasn’t a man
who wore cologne.

But after receiving that gift,
he wore its fresh lemon scent
for the rest of his life.

Even in hospice,
after my brother handed me
my father’s shaving kit,
a daily ritual
became a final sacrament.

I drew the razor
across his three-day stubble.

He always said
I had healing hands.

I ran tepid water
into a stainless steel bowl,
rinsed his face clean,
and dried it gently
with his well-worn terry-cloth towel.

The final act
was pouring a few drops
of Eau Sauvage
into my palms

and patting his smooth cheeks
just as he had done
a thousand times before.

I felt he knew
I was there,

in communion with him

one last time.

Amen.