What is now a long time ago —
Driving my son to school — a school half an hour and a couple of interstate highways away and which started at 8:00 sharp — not talking much because of the earliness and the dark of the morning, letting the radio play its music. Without looking over at him, I reach my right hand over to him, palm up. He touches it, precisely in the center of my palm, with his right index finger.
And now, he is too old for me to drive him anywhere. I reach across to my husband instead, palm up. He gives my palm a stroke. It’s not the touch, right in the center of my palm, that my son gave me.