Asunder

OLD MAN’S HANDS

USUALLY I LET MY BEARD GROW THANKSGIVING THROUGH CHRISTMAS. No one in the family likes me with a beard. They tell me this every year. They say, we don’t like you with a beard. I always apologize when they say this. I say, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. Then they say with a beard I look like my grandfather, which is probably not true, but I don’t mind. I don’t think my grandfather minds either. He hasn’t spoken in ten years. The family thinks it’s from the stroke but I think he’s run out of things to say to these people. I’m the same way, with or without a beard. I don’t think the family likes my grandfather with a beard either, but I’ve never heard one of them say so. Every day for my grandfather is uncalled for but his beard is handsome, groomed. He looks like someone who used to be in charge of big operations, of people. The hairs on my face run all haywire and I haven’t a single responsibility. Nevertheless we are kindred, the two of us. Neither of us accepts nor distributes gifts of any sort, even cards. Like him I wear flannel shirts, blue work pants tied with a rope around the waist, black shoes and white socks. His face hangs off his skull and looks like it would slide right off if he could stand up straight. When he sees me he pats my head and cups my hairy chin with both hands. He’s got the old man’s hands, stayed in the bath too long. Someone always puts a Santa hat on him but I always take it off and then we sit together and look out the window. We do this until someone says it’s time for dinner. We sit at the kid’s table and wait for them to pass us the turkey and whatever. The people in the family rarely have anything to say to either of us. One aunt says I look like a terrorist. To my grandfather and me it makes no difference. He is old and looks nothing like a terrorist. And the rest of the year I shave nearly every day and am said to have an appealing, almost baby-like face.