Izzy let go of Mom’s jeans and left us.
Mom turned to me and raised a single eyebrow.
“I’m serious,” I assured her. “I’m okay.”
She came up to me, cradled my face in her hands, and kissed my cheek. “You forget,” she said as she drew back, “how many times I’ve seen my baby boy hurt. I know the look. Come to the kitchen and let’s–.”
“Mom?” I interrupted.
She grew still.
“No kidding,” I said, “this is probably one I should handle myself.”
She glanced at the hand over my crotch. “Tell me what happened.”
I sighed and did.
She very carefully hugged me when I finished my tale of woe, and then she kissed my cheek again. “I’m so very sorry, baby. That’s just awful luck.”
“So,” I said, “you see what I mean about–about wanting to take care of this myself?”
“I do, and I’m sorry, but I still need to–Hannah! Are you eavesdropping on my conversation with your brother?” I followed Mom’s icy glare and found my middle sister at the top of the stairs, spinning and darting back to her room.
When Hannah’s door shut, Mom turned to me.
I said, “Mom–.”
“It’s decided, baby. Your eyes don’t have the experience of mine–mending a thousand injuries. To spot infection in time, I need to see it.”
“But–,” I started.
Mom’s brown eyes grew wider, her swooping eyebrows rose, and she tilted her head just slightly to the side. She didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.
“Okay,” I muttered, growing embarrassed at the mere prospect of what was to come.
“I’ll fetch my things,” she said, rubbing my shoulder and pouting sympathetically.
***
There are people in the world who are naturally gentle–not a violent impulse in their bodies. Mom is that way. Her every touch is charged with tenderness. Her hands and fingers always moved slowly, and her caresses were so supple that it was like her touch was designed to soothe. When she kissed my cheek–and occasionally my lips–the softness there was like a murmured lullaby.
If it isn’t already clear, my mother expresses her affection physically. She hugs. She kisses. She rubs. Sometimes she just needs to hold hands. More than once I’ve heard her lament the passing of those days when I didn’t mind nuzzles and snuggles. I can remember as a little boy being playfully chased around the house by her, and when caught, laughing hysterically as she planted kisses upon me by the hundreds. I still see her do it to my two youngest sisters.
Even at 39, Mom is still pretty agile. She and Dad stay fit. They turned our basement storage room into a small gym and worked out together all the time. Those two go on long walks a few times each week, as well, leaving me in charge of my sisters. I’m proud that Mom takes care of herself, and I know my friends say things about her behind my back.
There are a few grey wisps in her long, brown hair. Her eyes are big and dark, capped with distinct and expressive eyebrows. She can convey her emotions easily with those swooping things. Shorter than me by about six inches, she stands at five-four on long legs and a shorter torso capped by fat, jutting Mom-breasts that were challenging for even her own son to ignore, but suited her nurturing temperament to perfection.
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