Chapter 11 Photograph

The last time I went to see my dad, I shaved him.That happened to be the week of my illness.He was very unwell at the time, and I went to spend the night with him in his small apartment near the Parc du Lelys in Paris.In the morning, after I made him a cup of milk tea, I shaved him.He hasn't shaved in days.The scene of that day has always been etched in my mind.With his shoulders hooked and his back hunched, he huddled in a red felt armchair.He has been sitting in this chair and carefully reading the newspaper word by word.The heat from the shave would sting his loose skin, but Dad took the pain and didn't take it seriously.I wrapped a large towel around his thin neck and rubbed a big dollop of shaving foam on his face, trying not to irritate his wrinkled skin with broken capillaries.His eye sockets were sunken due to aging and fatigue, and his nose was more prominent in his thin facial features, but he was still upright and upright, and the white hair on his head was like a crown, which further brought out his majesty.In the room we are in, there are memories of his life gradually accumulated, these memories were only a thin layer on top of it, and then the old man gradually piled up debris here, and he is the only one who knows all the secrets .Some old magazines, some records that are never heard again, some strange knick-knacks, and some old photos are clipped in a large glass box.These old photos are from all periods.Before World War I in 1914, Dad in his little navy uniform, playing with hoops; my eight-year-old daughter on a wooden horse; and a black and white photo of me at a miniature golf course .I was eleven years old, with protruding ears, and looked like a good, stupid student, but in reality, I was a lazy, stupid student, which was annoying.

Finally, I help Dad spray on his favorite perfume, and the shave and shave is done.Then I say goodbye to him.Only this time, he didn't mention to me the will that he kept with the secretary.After this time, we never met again.I couldn't leave the "resort" of Belk, and my father, since he was ninety-two, couldn't use his legs, couldn't go down the stairs, and had to stay in the apartment.We both had "locked-in syndrome," each in our own way, me in my body and he in his third-floor apartment.Now someone else shaves me every morning.I often think of Dad as the caretaker dutifully files my cheeks with an old blade from last week.I wish I had put more heart into being a shave.

Sometimes, he would call me, holding the receiver with his trembling hands, and I could hear his trembling and warm voice reaching my ears.It's not easy talking on the phone with a son who knows he can't answer anything.He also sent me the photo he took at the miniature golf course.At first, I didn't understand why.It might remain a secret forever if no one thought to flip to the back of the photo.In my personal video memory, several forgotten scenes played out. It was a spring weekend, the weather was not very sunny, my parents and I went to a windy town to get some air.Dad's neat handwriting simply read: Belk by the Sea, 1963, April.