After Alice Neel, Nancy and Olivia
Today I’ve been thinking about hugs from my mother
and whether she still likes giving them to me.
There must’ve been a time when I fit right between
and inside her caved but never stony shoulders.
A time when I could perch on her lap,
right angle nestled atop another right angle,
or be lifted and swaddled in so tight and warm
exactly where she could feel our heartbeats sync up
that my temple would meet her jaw, her cheeks
and she wouldn’t have to worry about my hair,
how it could get caught between her lips
or scratch her skin, it was that short and soft.
It’s the second Sunday of May,
so I’m looking through photos from 2003
that confirm my suspicion because I really was that small
and looked a little like a custom baby doll in her arms,
I fit so ridiculously well. But there’s nothing manufactured
about the way our twin blue eyes accuse the photographer—
probably my father—of tearing the chrysalis even just a crack
for a photo op. Between frames I watch her raise her shoulders even higher
and her chin, too, to tuck my scratch-proof scalp under it and shield me
from the lasers she must’ve believed Dad’s Kodak to be blasting
plus whatever other perils our first apartment, the space beyond her squeeze,
had in store. A click later and she’s grinning while I’m roaring teethless,
I could throw a tantrum that fast. It’s as if I wanted to retaliate at the interruption
of the hugs I so loved, loved the way they proved I belonged to her alone
and made me feel safe and tight and warm and insulated
from the camera and apartment and everything else I didn’t have the words for yet.
I start wishing that my fun-sized, cradled self
had pinned down and memorized that feeling so I could glimpse it
like she must when she hugs me now
and has to make sure our twin foreheads don’t collide.
My hair is longer and more coarse than hers now,
my eyes have turned grey, and my arms can wrap around all of her
and not just her elbow. When I sit I cross my own legs,
and even though she always scolds at me to fix my posture
I hunch and tense my shoulders all day long,
carving out my own cave. Muscle memorized, at least,
her shelter stays with me. I hope she doesn’t mourn when she hugs me
now, but today and Dad’s photos make me understand it if she does,
if she misses when I belonged to her embrace only
and still fit just right inside of it. The next time I see her I’ll hug her,
of course, but I’ll make sure to relax my shoulders,
to let hers take charge and welcome me back home.