Susan Senator

Yesterday when Nat came home from school, I made him stand in the entryway so I could hug him. His face had a lot of stubble, and his skin was rough and smelled like food. I said, “Donnes-moi une baisse!” He looked at me, and kept walking. Then I said it again, pointing at my cheek. He pointed at his cheek. I said it once more, pointing at my cheek, and he did come over and kiss me. I exuded my usual joy with him and he went on his way, always the same, remove the jacket, remove the shoes, throw down the backpack, take out the pill bag and put it on the counter, run upstairs and unpack, leaving the dufflebag in the middle of Mom’s bed.

He was smiling faintly as he ran around, and that made me feel good, like maybe it had something to do with me. The tiny seed of hope explodes open, a shoot poking its way through old crusty winter soil. Ah, well. I was glad to see him, in any case.

Later that evening, when I said goodnight to him, I did what I always do, check that his PJs are adequate, ask him if he needs another blanket. Then he offers his face to me and says, “Kiss you goodnight.” I kissed him. I said, “Okay, how about kissing me?” And he does. He always will — if you ask.

Last night, I slept with a lot of consciousness, so I was happy to wake up because it hadn’t been much good. Yet with that kind of sleep, you can easily remember your bits of your dreams. The dream piece that stays with me is this: I was in Nat’s room, the same bedtime routine of straightening his covers or something, before he got into bed. He entered the room, passing me in the doorway and stopped to give me a kiss, which he had anticipated. (This was only a tiny leap, because he is so attached to his routines and anticipating everything.)

But then — the sweet cruelty of dreams — as he walked by me into his room, he rubbed my back, with that faint Nat smile. He rubbed my back, a few seconds of giving, of knowing what I needed and giving it to me. A lifetime of missed neural connections, corrected literally overnight.

Except that it was a dream.