A little girl in ponytails sits across from me. Her mother has placed her hand on her little legs to make sure she doesn’t fall; the roads are too bumpy. I watch the two of them and they’re picture-perfect. I suddenly miss being held. I miss being touched by mother’s hands and I feel like a child who wants to cry for mom’s embrace. I’m suddenly weakened, vulnerable, and my eyes are watery. I have forgotten how good it feels to be held by mother, the woman who knows every detail of your face, every little speck on your arms. I have forgotten her smell, her voice, her songs.
Can I be a child, just one more time?
She is sitting there quietly and I smile. I smile at her; I haven’t forgotten how to smile.