The nurse let me wash my brother’s hands

Dear Delyara, My brother died in hospital after a long illness. Before the funeral home came, a nurse asked whether I wanted to help wash him. I nearly said no. Then I saw his hands. He had always worked with them—mechanic, gardener, fixer of anything anyone brought to him. Oil lived permanently beneath his nails no matter how much he scrubbed. The hospital had cleaned him, but one thumb still had a dark line near the nail. I asked for soap. The nurse brought warm water and a cloth. I washed his hands the way our mother used to wash ours before dinner when we were children. Between his fingers. Around the nails. The wrist where he wore his watch. I suddenly remembered him holding my bicycle seat while I learned to ride, repairing my first car for free, carrying my daughter asleep from the back seat. His hands had done so many things for us that nobody kept records of. When I finished, they looked too clean. I almost regretted removing that final line of grease. Before leaving, I rubbed one thumb with my own dirty fingertip from the hospital parking lot. It left the faintest gray mark. That felt more like him.