Touch

I rub my son’s back exactly the way my mother rubbed mine. I run my fingers along his eyebrows and palm the top of his head with my hand combing forward just like my mother did mine. When I soothe him with my touch, I see her hands: wrinkled, black, elephant-titus-like. Mine. When I kiss my son, I think of how she kissed me – tender, compassionate, promising.

For a man that does not speak to his mother, I do so much like her. For a man who calls himself “The Black Family Man”, it is gravely unfortunate that the communicative lineage begins in the 21^st century. It is. But I cannot reject her influence on how I touch, speak, hear my identical 30-year-younger twin. He is loved, much like I was at his age, and my affection gives him strength and relief.