I have observed that when dogs and cats see other dogs and cats, they rub against each other and touch. As a human being, there were times in my life when I went months without being touched by anyone, not only sexually but humanely. I have also been in situations were it seemed appropriate to give a fellow/sister human a hug but because of the setting or not knowing them, I didn’t.
Following is a short “thingee” I wrote called Skin Hunger (copyright 2004).
A touch. A touch. A touch.
The baby lies in its crib. Its cries have been so frequently unanswered it does not cry. The baby remembers: the warm wetness and floating motions of the watery womb. The rhythmic sounds of heartbeat and mother’s breath. The satisfaction of steady nourishment. The connection of mother and fetus, of generations, or the past to the future.
There was no loneliness there.
Loneliness, hunger, silence, separateness is new.
The baby sucks its thumb, mourning for what once was and what it wants again.
A touch. A touch. A touch.
The woman finished reading/performing the Sunday announcements, then walks regally to her pew, grabbing the respectful attention that her clothes, position and bearing command. Truth be told, she is tired of respect, she wants familiarity, she wants closeness, she wants to be touched.
Her skin is parched. It threatens to crackle into dust if it does not get moisture soon. (Back to the dust we will go.) The moisture of a kiss, the dew of passion, the juices brought forth when male and female commingle. Something more than the word and the longing from afar for a more intimate role in the minister (or at least a deacon’s) life.
A touch. A touch. A touch.
The man wants to hug his daughter but she has grown and her form has changed. The new body and attitude form a chasm between them. Once familiar, they are now like strangers. He remembers when she used to sit on his lap and he would wrap his arms around her forming a protective circle. The daughter notices the frown on her father’s face whenever he looks at her. She remembers when Daddy would laugh and play with her. Memories of closer times will have to do, but they are not enough.
A touch. A touch. A touch.
(Yes, you can touch yourself, but it is not the same and it is often not enough even when it will have to do.)
A touch.
A touch.
A touch.
Wow–what a strong, beautiful “thingie”. I think it’s a poem, actually. The stanza that really resonated with me was this one:
“The woman finished reading/performing the Sunday announcements, then walks regally to her pew, grabbing the respectful attention that her clothes, position and bearing command. Truth be told, she is tired of respect, she wants familiarity, she wants closeness, she wants to be touched.”
Thanks for the comment. I hesitated so to put it up. I’m glad it “touched you.” CS
I love this piece. It helps me think about how important it is to reach out to those who need a hug, a pat on the arm, a kiss….something we all like to receive, but sometimes don’t think about “touching” others. Thanks,
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