REFLECTION

Looking at my father's face, I must confront

my own mortality. I marvel at his silver hair,

the wrinkled skin, his blue Paul Newman

eyes that sparkle still. Antiquity has stolen Dad.

Although insurance tables tell me he's

in overtime, and my clock's running down,

I don't feel so old. It's like a jug of water

leaking. I'll bet a bigger jug would make

no difference. Suppose instead

of eighty, the tables topped a hundred

sixty years. My wife's dad died

at eighty-five, but he had failed to live

a day past twenty-five. But then,

I've read about a Russian guy who lived

a hundred thirty-three, still active

to the end. Dad's raised three

of us pretty well successfully,

outlived two wives, and married

a third; he's traveled some and saved

enough to live a comfortable retirement.

That must say insurance tables don't

mean much -- just tell how fast the average

jug will leak, but not how well a life's been lived.

I look again into my father's face, smile,

and wonder at his silver hair, his aging skin,

and blue, defiant eyes still full of expectation.

I splash hot water and smear the lather,

then lift the razor to my cheek and chin.