Copyright is held by the author.
I trace a finger down her forehead,
over the bridge of her nose and the hill of one cheek.
She sighs baby contentment;
purrs her pleasure.
It is everything.
I wonder as the years skip by in this icebox city,
when it seems like no one has held her since Joey Suba at the grade seven dance
— and only then in the dark on a dare — will she remember that touch?
Later, will she feel its echo in the touch of a lover?
Purr as she recognizes her heart?
At the end, will she sigh baby contentment when her
old woman’s hand is held by her daughter’s?
As the purr of life fades, will she know that she has touched and been touched?
Will it be the first and last thing she remembers?