Jaxyn Boyce

A Mother’s Touch

It was the silky tortilla-colored skin. The way it blended my mother’s stretch marks and cuts seamlessly, was like a hidden canvas. I remember as a kid when I was allowed I would trace her arms just to feel how smooth her skin was. No bumps, razor burns, nothing, and when she was pregnant it would always radiate the natural sunlight. The long strands of loose russet-colored hair would peek out of her bun. Then there were our matching hazel eyes.

There were many moments when we sat on the lawson style couch, feet scrunched up as we sat across from each other. We would usually watch forensic files and let the syrup of a sweet coke drizzle down our throats. She used to kick my cold feet away when they would accidentally lay on top of hers. My mother was always shoving, always pushing out a guttural sound of disgust when any of my siblings got too close. Yet, that didn’t stop her from having kids.

When my father would enter the room it was understood that kids were not allowed on the couch, and just before I could inch closer to my mother I would slide slowly off the couch until my head was right in front of his bouncing legs. It was notable that I had more freedom in the sense that I got more quality time from her, but I would sometimes stare at her and think about how I was going to make her tender-hearted. Throughout the years, the affection grew distant and the best she could offer was watching her favorite crime shows with me. Nothing different for eighteen years. Same couch, same sodas. I used to beg my internal voice for just one hug and then I’d be satisfied, but it never came.

When other kids would play with my hair in school, it would make me shiver because it was an unfamiliar touch. Even now, as a grown adult, I still think about that silky skin that created me. It’s strange to reconcile that even the closest people in my life don’t fill that void. That isn’t to say that it isn’t comforting; it just isn’t the same as a mother’s touch. It will never be. It couldn’t.