The old man was dying. That much was obvious. Few days remained. His breath was shallow as he lay propped in his recliner. It was cancer of some kind.
His work had been outdoors, farming on small acreage for many decades.
His face was covered in quarter-inch long gray whiskers, and it bothered him. But none of the women tending him thought to deal with that problem, nor really, could they have.
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Now it happened that my father, the old man's son-in-law was there that day also. My father had never shaved another man's face in his whole life. But seeing Grampa Ted's discomfort and perhaps shame, he gathered the tools of a shave and brought them out to the livingroom, soap, brush, razor, a wet towel. I don't know, perhaps some aftershave. You can bet that it would have been Old Spice.
Carefully, carefully, the job was done. The face was clean and perhaps anointed with some Old Spice.
My grandfather said to my father, "thank you for everything Rollo".
My father said to my grandfather, "that's all right Ted".
Things had not always been straight between them. There was long history after all. A simple exchange of grace by two men. Clean and simple and final.
The old man with his own mother.
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