"Do you know what I have done to you?" he asked that night.
Twenty-four damp feet shifted. That's a rhetorical question, right?
No matter, he didn't even pause for effect.
"Do we know what you have done for us?" Sure, Teacher. No problem, Lord.
Wait.
What was the question?
What have you done to us?
Why did you take off your outer robe?
What have you done to me?
Not just my feet but my hands and my head, and my elbows, my knees, my eyes, ears, lips...
"Do you know what I have done to you?"
Sometimes. Sometimes I know.
Sometimes I know,
the way I remember a dream for all of thirty seconds when I wake up;
the way the lyrics to that song are almost on the tip of my tongue;
the way my child looks into my eyes and sees things I didn't even know were there;
the way all I ever hoped and longed for is suddenly mine, having been there all along.
I know now, in this moment. But I am prone to forgetfullness, and to distrust what I know.
I need you to remind me. Command me. Send me back to the basin and the towel.
