Elegy with Steam

When I was sick with a head cold, my head

full of pressure, my father would soak a washcloth

in hot water, then ball it up, wring it out. He would

open it above my head, then place it against

my face like a second skin, the light around me

disappearing entirely except through the spaces

between the stitching. I would inhale the steam

in that darkness, hearing his voice on the other side,

otherwise almost devoid of any other bodily sense

but the warmth and depth of his voice, as if

I had already died and was on the other side

of life waiting for the sickness to lift, but I wasn’t.

I was still on this earth, the washcloth going cold

on my face, my body still sick, and my father still

there when I opened my eyes, as he always was,

there to give me warmth before going cold again.