Apology

My father would take the washclothand wring it out with both of his hands,the water falling like rain from a heavenhe controlled. He would wash my back,and I would watch him teach metenderness—the way he would guta deer, holding the ribs like a dance partneras it swayed from the skinning shedon a rope. The soap left a thin filmon the water like a cloudy mirror. I could feelhis cruelty, as if each bath was nothingmore than his prayer for forgivenessto the son he had hours earlier hitwith a belt like he was driving a nailinto a wall, a period into a sentence.