500 words- a scene involving touch

4.10.2007

It's challenging to compress something down to 500 words, but I'm enjoying it.


I had just graduated from massage school, and my mother decided that I should come down to Mississippi for the convening of the aunts at my grandmother’s house. Mommo’s daughters loved their mother with a dogged persistence, buying outfits to put on her lump of a body. “You look good, Momma,” Aunt Anne would exclaim, and Mommo, her stroke 20 years old by then, would turn and smile vaguely. And then Aunt Anne would repeat herself, “Mom, you look real good. That pink is a nice color for you.” By then Mommo had tired of the conversation and would look out the window or down at her right hand.
At some point during every visit there came a point when the loving was too exhausting. When having Mommo confirm, once again that she did not remember her children and especially not her grandchildren. Aunt Katie would say, “Bo has been playing football, Momma. He’s a real good line backer, a bit smaller than the other boys, but he makes up for it.” Mommo might drool a bit then and my aunts would say, “Oh Momma, you got a little something there. I got it. Just a little something.” Then they would retire, talking amongst themselves, laughing, and competing over who could do the most chores.
“Elaine has just gotten her massage license,” my mother announced to Mommo.
“Um hmm, hmm.” Mommo grunted and my mother brightened, hoping she had understood.
“She does great massages now,” mother spoke slowly and loudly. “I’m always hitting her up for one.” Mommo looked absently around the room. “Maybe you’d like a massage? Momma, would you like a massage?”
Mommo did not respond, but it was decided among the aunts that she would definitely like a massage. They arranged pillows on her bed and laid her on her side.
“Are you comfortable, Mommo?” I asked her. Mommo grunted, which I interpreted as a yes. My aunts kept coming in and out excitedly, “Oh, she’s going to love this. Now, don’t worry, I’ll leave you alone. I’ll keep everyone out of here.”
When I first touched Mommo, she started a little, unsure of what was going on. Her skin was thin, soft like the petals of the gladiolas that grew in her garden. I did gentle, long strokes on her back. Tracing a line from her hips up to the place where her shoulders formed a bent over hump. She let out a soft moan and smacked her lips. Stopping, I asked, “Mommo, is this ok? Do you want me to keep going?” She shifted impatiently, and I went back to work. About halfway through the massage, Mommo fell asleep, but I kept working. It was one of the few times I had ever been alone with my grandmother.
When I told my aunts that I was done, they rushed into room and woke up their mother. “It’s like a real spa treatment,” Aunt Eileen told her. “Now wasn’t that nice?” No one expected an answer at this point but the aunts kept going on.
“I’ll bet that was wonderful,” Aunt Deborah gushed. My mother stood quietly behind them, holding my hand.