The Dandelion
I’d just come home from the hospital. A hairline fracture in the leg and a compression fracture in the spine.
He held my hand as I limped my way to the living room. Fluffed up the pillows and put an extra one there before he settled me down on the sofa.
He took my shoes and socks off. One at a time, peeling them off gently. Then he lifted my legs up to rest on the couch. He hurried to kitchen to get me a cold glass of water.
“How about a bath?” He asked. I shook my head no, I couldn’t. He waved his hand and filled the tub anyways. He rummaged through the cabinet, opening bottles, reading labels, sniffing the contents. Found my favorite bath salts and poured in a generous amount.
From the living room to the washroom, one painful step at a time. Then he took a deep breath. He steadied his hands and undid the buttons on my shirt. Slowly slid it down my shoulders, careful not to move the black and blue muscles on my back.
He wiped the sweat off his forehead. Then the pants. A minute of mental gymnastics to figure out the easiest way to get me into the tub. Five minutes of embarrassing awkward movements to actually get me in.
The warm water made my muscles unclench a little. He got a washcloth and slowly rubbed away the stench of the hospital from my body. The steam from the warm water fogged up the mirror. He didn’t wipe it so I couldn’t see the grotesque hunch on my back I’d live with for all my life.
The clean scent of a big fluffy towel. He went over every inch of my body with it, barely touching it. “Your skin is dry.” A big squish of the lotion, massaged on my skin with reverent fingers. Breath held in, as if I was a dandelion that would disappear with a single exhale.
Paired Listening
From the Five Part Body Playlist
