page 11 of 30												index

  
		

In contrast 

		to this example 
		was the touch of my mother. 
			
		Sometimes 
		she would come into my room 
		after I had gone to bed. 
			
		We would talk 
		in whispers for awhile, 
		then she would stroke my face, 
		tuck the blankets under the mattress,
		and kiss me goodnight. 
			
		It was a simple ritual, 
		but one filled with significance. 
			
		I remember 
		not wanting to move 
		for fear of washing away 
		the trace of her touch, 
		the way the sheets would always feel 
		afterwards.
		
		 
			
		My bed had been transformed 
		into a safe vessel that I lay in, 
		savoring the lingering sensation 
		of her presence. 
			
		I would try to fall asleep 
		in this motionless state, 
		always waking the next day 
		to mourn 
		the evaporation of my mother's touch.
			
			
			
The physical . . .