imperfect prose on thursdays: hands in dishwater

for two years i didn’t let them hug me, and i would fall asleep hugging myself, and i’d hear mum sneak in late when she thought me dreaming, and she’d lie down beside me just so she could hold me and it felt so good, but i didn’t let her know, i couldn’t let her know, because then i might stop being angry: angry at them for not hugging me more, and it was a twisted circle like the vine of a sweet pea flower

it was a touch which told me i mattered, and i think, for children, this is what matters: to know they are important to someone, to know they are worth leaving the other 99 for, to know they are worth running down the prodigal laneway to kiss and robe and feast with despite spending the family inheritance

and today, i believe i matter in the way of leaving my hands in the dishwater for five minutes, still, just to feel them soften and the heat becomes a spa becomes a mother’s mini paradise

i believe i matter in the slow in the light of winter, hearing the crunch of boot and the call of the cardinal and refusing to hurry the holy

i believe i matter in the curl towards husband’s skin, in the placing of hand on the seed that grows womb within, in the laughing outloud, so loud, in the middle of the grocery store

for we do. we matter. enough for creator God to kneel toward earth, blow dust into swirls into dna into ribs and pat us perfect in the garden of eden….

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