Mother

I miss you-- the way I miss the comfort of my own mother's embrace. So soothing. So divinely human. Once, I pressed my cheek against her bosom. I remember, the relief of being, momentarily, saved. And even as I write this-- and even as I tell you-- I slouch toward the familiar & I can feel the warmth of her skin, damp & pulsating, beneath her peasant blouse-- the color of lilacs. The fabric-- rough against my wet cheek-- her amble breast, a pillow for my weary head. And even as I describe this, and even as I tell you, I can smell layers of home: Ivory detergent, hot grease & Chanel. Oh! how it has left me wanting. And I can recall the healing of her embrace-- the weight of her chin pressing down atop my head, my pursed lips sealed to that foreign place that once would not welcome my tender infant mouth-- but now ached, filled with remorse for all she refused me, then. Because she knew too well, now, that the world was much more than she had prepared me for. Too much for women like she and I to endure. She felt sorry. I can tell you that no where else have I felt as safe, outside my own mother's embrace, than in your arms. And I ask: Did she send you?