He steps out of the shower, soft skin steaming, nose
stuffed, and offers a plaintive, “Mom?” It’s such a
thin, pathetic plea, awakening the breathless love I’d
thought reserved for younger years but, wow, knees
weak, I stumble into the warm cloud of our bathroom.
He’s been old enough to dry himself for years now
but he’s sick, poor baby, and miserable, so I kiss his
still wet hair, smelling of coconut, and wrap a towel
around his angular shoulders. “My sweet minnow,”
I coo, “My sick little guy.” Normally he would have
none of this but today he submits, permits fingers
brushing a cheek, the squeeze of arms, and I think
in this moment that love is so utterly effortless and
ineffable that it’s absurd so many kids go without.
And of course, in this moment, pondering the ease
of love’s emergence, I’m not thinking about the years
of therapy, the books read and body scans complete,
the journals snug in boxes in the garage. I’m not
thinking about the treatment centers, twelve step
groups, medications tried and meditations enjoyed.
I’m not thinking of all the times I fell to my knees,
not at all sure how to survive a single day more.
I’m not thinking about that one time in the ER, or
the other time in the psych ward, or the triggers like
uncleared mines still scattered about this now lovely
life. I’m not thinking of the people I no longer know
from the family where love was scarce, people the
minnow does not know to miss. I’m only thinking
that love must be the given thing, the flood that rises
inevitably unless hindered. I’m only thinking that
nothing could keep me from wiping this nose, drying
this hair, each touch an oblation, each utterance an
offering at the altar of life. I’m only giving thanks
in the truest way I can that obstructions can be cleared
and hearts somehow heal. I’m only in awe that he’s
here at all, and me, too, and that love still rises.
