Body Like Wine

Dad's flesh has become pleasantly soft, I was surprised to find.

Age and months of hospital stay has melted his muscle tone, so that beneath all his rugged, calloused skin his body flows and shifts, like pastry-dough to the touch.

Aside from his height, I inherited none of Dad's manly physique: his Buddha hands with digits like tiny timber; barrel chest and pillar legs hewn from hard labor in his youth. I wonder how much his success in academia owed to his imposing presence -- maybe people made Dad the Principal because they were so relieved to find out he is actually a really nice guy?

A spinal curvature has been shrinking Dad for years now. The first time someone referred to Dad as "cute" I did a double take, but thats also been a few decades past. Likely the hardest blow to his stately regard was immigration to the US twenty years ago, away from his throng of admiring students and into second-class citizenry.

Somehow, he retains his authority when I stand over his bed in the emergency room, listening to him pontificate the important figures in classical Chinese literature. That is, until I helped him up to get to the urinal, and my fingers sank into his arms.