I spent last night in a feverish sweat, fighting off some bug, and when I had a clear thought through the haze, all I thought about was Mommy, nursing me when I was sick as a child. She would bring her pyramid pillow to prop me up in bed, and open the tray with foldable legs in front of me, so I could drink chicken soup and eat toasted rice. When I had migraines, she would sit in the shadows of my bedroom, massaging my feet and hands, murmuring soft, healing encouragement, even though any other noise would cause me to throw up.
Hands down, the worst part of growing up is not having Mommy to nurse me through my illnesses, regardless of how attentive and capable Brujo is, or anyone else who has tended to me, for that matter. Mommy’s hands are healing, not just because she is Mommy, but in my case, especially because she is.
I am feeling better now, and grateful. Grateful, for all those times Mommy knew what would comfort me, even before I did.