Touching

Right after they fish the baby from my reluctant womb, a rash tiptoes up my belly, over my engorged breasts, and into the warm folds of my neck. I don’t notice the rash until I shuffle back to bed from the sterile bathroom, and catch a glimpse of my ravaged body reflected back at me in the night time hospital window. I stand there, alone, and stare at the unfamiliar shadow in the glass: rounded, curved, bloated, in places that used to be angular and defined. I see a monster this night in the window, as my baby sleeps beside me, swaddled and sated by milk suckled from two raw nipples. And when I lift my hands to the shadow in the window, to trace that unfamiliar body, I notice the rash, red and agitated, that has crept onto the back of my hands. And I begin to cry…

I did not know then that I would lose the weight quicker than it had been gained, or that the rash was a temporary thing. I saw only loss that night in the hospital window. A youthful body disappeared; my independence sprinting down the quietly lit road, her back to the wind, her back to me—as I stood alone in that stoic room. I stepped gingerly to where the baby lay, the stitches in my lower belly pinching, the unfamiliar burden in my thighs and hips slowing things down… And this monster lifted her baby cub into the crook of her arm and breathed his milkiness; studied the filmy vein that revealed itself along his temple; watched his mouth search instinctively for me. I brushed one grown-up finger gently over the tuft of hair, along the curve of his balmy face, down to the tip of one tiny, delicate finger—which curled against mine. This baby, this boy, that I would not let go…

And this is how I get to know the people I love--because I do not trust these far-sighted eyes. These fierce dark eyes that sometimes see “SHH” lit up on the lighted clock beside my bed at night when I roll over. And it’s only when I squint that I bring 5:44 into focus, grateful for another hour's sleep. So I do not always trust my vision… And instead it is my hands that move, that reach out, feeling the landscape for softness, for potency, for where it might hurt.

My hands are working woman’s hands. They know dishwater and hot stoves; they know the curved rubber handle of the vacuum; of freshly laundered sheets shaken out over the bed and tucked into heavy corners. The hard thin shell of a pen... These hands that chop onions and carrots; that lather shampoo into a tired boy’s hair; that sponged ointment over fifty-two staples in the top of his head after the accident. These hands that seek out pleasure at night when I am alone…

Last night, I slip my hands under the shirt on my little boy’s back and move my fingers quietly along his spine. I sing the song I always sing, as he hugs “Charlie” and my hands move, lulling him. I rub his two tender shoulder blades and massage the back of a warm, willing neck. Reach around and touch my fingers to his heavy lids. Leave one quiet hand over his as he drifts off to sleep…

And later when we are in bed, I run my fingers through a different landscape: his closely cropped beard, a muted cheekbone, down a long thin unresponsive arm. He lies perfectly still for this examination, on his back, his eyes trained on the ceiling—afraid of my touch, afraid of what might get revealed…

***