Retirement

When he becomes a monk, he says I will no longer be his daughter.
To one another, we would be people. Strangers.
But what if I have children? They will not be your grandchildren?
He pauses, considering, then grips the wheel and keeps driving.
I don’t visit him enough and when I do, I never cook for him.
Imagine his monkhood. I would have to give him more respect
as a stranger. His head shaved every three weeks.
No one is allowed to touch a monk’s head. But I am the only one
who massages my father’s temples before he goes to bed.
If I am no longer his daughter, what will I offer him then?

Copyright © 2022 by Monica Sok. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on December 22, 2022, by the Academy of American Poets.

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“We all have private languages to provoke our loved ones. Once, my father made the hollow threat of estrangement with the possibility of pursuing a monastic life during his retirement. For thirty years, he had worked as a welder making parts for agricultural machinery. While adjusting to this significant life change, he was being hard on me for not being a more traditional daughter. In the silence that followed, we both feared the loss of intimacy with one another. Years later, my father is happily retired, and I am still his daughter.”
—Monica Sok