The soap in the “little bathroom” was as it had been for the last 26 years.
It was the green, rough lava type that mechanics use to wash their hands. No matter that Daddy had been dead for a year. No matter that
at least 5 years before that he had been unable to work on the lawnmower, or the
tractor, or the car, or any of the myriad machines with which he liked to
tinker.
The soap was there -- probably during the last illness-filled years so as not to
take away his dignity. Mother was a
past master at seeing that other people’s, and especially his, dignity
remained intact. During over 15
years of diabetes, colon cancer, and heart attacks, she fiercely fought to keep
him the strong, tall, handsome man he had always been.
In earlier years, attending breakfasts, lunches, and sometimes more than one
dinner per night had been commonplace for these important people.
Round-the-clock meetings had Daddy at the head of the table.
But not much gave him more satisfaction, even then, than making a sick
lawnmower well again when he had the time -- especially if it were someone
else’s.
And after retirement, lawnmowers, and tractors and “keeping up the place”
replaced his less happy career life. So the soap was placed in the bathroom by the garage to wash
off that wonderful grease and grime of manhood.
And I know Mother left it there not just in case my brother needed to use
it when he came over to fix something, but because to remove it would’ve been
an assault on Daddy’s all-too-obvious weakened state.
I’m not sure why it’s still there now -- maybe somewhat for my brother’s
occasional use, but I suspect there’s a deeper reason that I’ll only be able
to understand when I get closer to that point in life.
The soap may be too useful to waste, or it may be that some things just
shouldn’t be thrown away.
