There is no touch like my mom’s. You may think your mom’s touch is the best—I don’t mean to be unkind, but you’re wrong. If you have ever had the pleasure of holding my mom’s hand, or having her stroke your back, or your hair, or your face, you know.
Growing up, I’d whip off my socks and put my feet in my mom’s lap and, without a word, she’d begin lightly brushing her fingers from my toes to my heel, to my delight. “I have no idea how you tolerate this,” she’d say. “I hate having my feet touched.”
The other night, Mom was restless and exhausted at the same time. Finally, she sat down on the bed at my promise of a foot massage—which felt odd to even offer her. “Tom,” she said after a few minutes, “have you ever had your feet massaged? It’s amazing! Honey, you’re so good at this. I may want this every day.”
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