touch

We greet each other with serene soft smiles.

“How was yours?”

“Fantastic. How was yours?”

“Unbelievable. I never had one of these before. This is so amazing.” Another smile and I laugh.

A special day out, just the two of us, away from other family members and work and stress and the daily detritus of living.

We walk slowly to the locker room, touching each other’s faces. “Wow, yours is so soft,” she whispers.

I peer into the large, round blue eyes of my daughter. Everything about her is soft – her lips, her smile, her heart. I touch her skin. “And warm,” I reply.

“Hot towels. The lady placed these hot towels over my neck and my checks and my forehead until only my mouth, nose, and eyes were exposed. It’s rainy and windy and cold outside. Do you know how good that felt?”

I giggle. “Not to mention the heated sheets we laid on, and the flannel blanket on top of us.”

“I didn’t want to get up,” my daughter, mother of two little ones, admits.

We stand in front of the mirror in the well-appointed locker room, checking out our newly puffed pink faces. Our eyes catch each other’s during mid-primp, and we grin even wider.

Mother/daughter joy.