It occurred to me that evening that my love for my mother had been wholly physical: the familiar quick fingers, the green eyes, the rough texture of her hair, the curve of muscle in her calf, and, yes, the high instep of her small feet—those were the images that came to mind when I argued that I loved her. Had loved her. That: the physicalness of her, the familiarity of her sharp-boned embrace. That body of hers was what I mourned for. Still mourn for now.
