All smooshed together on the bench.

Now… not so much. Unless you’re already smooshed, don’t do it. Right?

But we love the smoosh. The flesh on flesh touch. Some of us do.

My mother wasn’t one of them. Oh no. “Please don’t touch me! Aaugh! No kisses!” She would shudder if you mistakenly gave her one.

So, maternal touch was not something I recall. In turn, as a mother myself, I was initially the opposite. It was torment for me to even let another person hold my child. And my second one wanted to be touched all the time. Held in my arms. In a tight fitting backpack. Or, in the car, touching my hand from her carseat.

It’s so deep. Touch. Essential to so many.

And, kind of oddly, in this time when we are learning to not only NOT touch, but to stay a good 6 feet apart, I have simultaneously felt closer to many people. As if I’m being touched by them. As if, what they say and how they express themselves in any media, has more immediacy.

It’s as if we are all riding this intimate group swing together. All affected. All touched in some way. So our caring is more comprehensible to each other.

Maybe not smooshed. But touched. Yes.

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