I washed my father’s hands before the funeral home came

Dear Delyara, My father died at home tonight while the electricity was out. The generator had failed again, so the room was lit by two candles and the flashlight on my phone. My mother sat beside him repeating prayers she could not finish. While we waited for the funeral home, I warmed water on the gas stove and washed his hands. He had been a mechanic, and even after months of illness, dark oil remained inside the lines of his fingers. I scrubbed gently with the small brush he used for work, but the stains would not disappear. My sister told me to stop because no one would notice. I kept going. Those hands had repaired every car we owned, lifted me onto his shoulders, slapped me once when I was sixteen, held my mother’s face when he apologized, and signed hospital forms with increasing difficulty. I wanted to return them clean. In the end, I left the oil beneath his nails. When the men carried him out, one candle went out in the draft from the door. The other remained burning beside the bowl of gray water. I have never understood until tonight that a person’s whole life can remain visible in the places washing cannot reach.