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 . . .