Little Touches

Last week I went to the funeral home to view my husband's grandmother the day after she died. My aunt-in-law, who along with her husband comprised the other two visitors, invited me to touch her too. I was so glad she did. I never would have done so on my own. Grandma's hair was very fine, her skin very soft despite the cool hardness of her cheek.

I keep thinking about this final touch, about the feeling of her body, living and in death, on my finger tips, my cheek, in my arms. I remember how frail she felt in recent years, as if I might break her if I held her too tight. To the end she welcomed a squeeze of the hand, a brush of our cheeks, a hug nonetheless.

She was a woman who, I sensed without having known her then, really enjoyed her body in younger years. She spoke often of the pleasures of summers sunning herself at the beach. She took great pleasure in good food. She told of sleeping in spoons with her husband, recalled by my aunt-in-law last week over champagne toasts to Grandma, and the joyous sensations of being pregnant. I remember her watching me breastfeed my babies with interest, once asking me, "What does it feel like? You know, I never had the chance to do that. They bound my breasts at the hospital to stop the milk." Her question didn't seem to carry a political pro-/con-breastfeeding agenda; it felt like she simply regretted the lost chance to explore a new sensation.

In contrast to Grandma's final years, when touch was limited to her cat and greetings/partings with visiting family, my days are overrun with little touches. I often wake up to a soft little foot tickling my tummy or lodged under my chin. I'm so used to the small fingers that lightly roam my neck and chest while nursing that I can forget the gift of this wee, ephemeral bit of tenderness. I have "snuggle requests" from the bigger brothers upon waking and before sleep, hand-holdings across streets, and kisses on heads of ruffled hair. I enjoy the embraces of my husband throughout the day, sleepy snuggles, and the brushes of our fingers and bodies amidst the bustle of packing lunchboxes and dressing boys for school.

We are still in the stage of family life where a kiss and a hug provide miraculous healing. Although the two bigger boys have achieved the rational capacity to question the mechanism for this effect, when push comes to shove comes to real ouch, they still want a kiss and a hug first. Two-year old Tucker puts his faith in both Band-Aids (for invasive, non-invasive, and thoroughly imaginary wounds - so much fun to open! stick!) and Kiss-Kiss/Hug-Hug remedies.

With three young boys, our little touches can get acrobatic. We recently built new Ikea beds and dressers for the boys' new "mountain" bedroom. As I climbed into a case to screw in tracks for drawers, my rear end must have suggested a horse, as Tucker promptly climbed on for a ride. At music class yesterday during the "free dance" portion, he required not only that I carry him, but that I flip him upside down repeatedly (exhausting!). The boys love nothing more than "Tough Time" with Jordy at the end of the day, which consists of Jordy lying flat on the floor while one-after-the-other the boys hurl themselves at him.

This morning Duncan, the big seven-year old, required a snuggle on the rocker, curling up pretending to be a baby again, arms gripping me hard. This fall Reeve took to crawling into bed beside me at night, so stealth that I wouldn't realize his presence until waking in the morning to the slow rise and fall of his breath, his warm back against my arm. To my relief and chagrin, he has quickly adapted to his new bedroom, sleeping as late at 7am in his own "big boy" bed.

These touches wrap me in a warm web of life, a web that reaches beyond memory to my mother's countless loving touches of little me. I fear the loss of touch that will happen as they and we age. It happens so gradually I often don't notice. No morning snuggle this morning with Reeve, and he is fine, and so am I. Then one day they will leave home. And one day Jordy or I will loose the other. I have to hope the gradual nature of the changes will make it bearable. And give me time to get a seriously snuggly dog.

Grandma once told me that one of the hardest things about getting older for her was the dissonance between the way she sees herself inside with how she knows others perceived her. In her mind's eye, she was eternally 40. Healthy, vital, teenage kids at home, in love with her husband. I am there now. Since 40 I've had a baby, got the chance to run a marathon, and enjoy good health and affection all around. I'm grateful for these little touches, and to Grandma for helping me see my bounty.