Ben's hair

A few weeks before he died, I took Ben to see him in the Good Samaritan nursing home. It was warm and sunny for October; he was miserable that day, sniping at me, avoiding looking at me, surly, fighting with his pillows. Ben, then 11, stood at the side of the bed. “Joe,” he said, “I just got my hair buzzed.” Joe confused by the boy he'd cradled as an infant. Ben continued. “Joe,” he said, “would you like to touch it?” Joe’s hands almost translucent; old and lean but still beautiful and atremble, waiting for something sweet.  Ben leaned down,  took Joe's left hand, raising it over his head; bending down he put Joe’s hand on his hair and Joe touched it. Then, a rapture on Joe's face and in the slow touch of his fingers, the moment so tender and Joe so calm and happy and unafraid for the moment lightly touching Ben’s soft hair, and Ben sat with him. "Does it feel good, Joe?" he asked.