It seems
fitting
that one of the last boyhood memories
of my father
involves sleeping in the same bed
with him.
I was seventeen
and we had gone on a weekend fishing trip,
staying in a tiny cabin
with only one double bed.
I had never slept
in the same bed with him,
and the thought terrified me.
I spent the entire day
dreading nightfall.
It was one of those hot and humid midwestern nights,
when the air seems to envelope and caress you
with its sticky humidity.
We undressed
and lay uncovered on top of the sheets,
each careful not to touch the other.
I imagined an invisible line
drawn down the middle of the bed,
the boundary
between friendly and foreign territory.
My father was clearly uncomfortable,
but eventually
I could hear his heavy and even sleeping breath.
I remained awake
much longer,
sweating in the hot night air,
afraid
that I might fall asleep
only to awaken
with the feel of my father's flesh
against mine.
I finally slept fitfully
and uncomfortably
at the furthest edge of the bed.
And so . . .