WARM HANDS
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By
Margaret Johnson-Hodge
Copyrighted by Margaret Johnson-Hodge. All Rights Reserved.
Touch.
It was essential. From the moment you are born you were touched. Two hands cradling you, bringing you into the world, making the passage easy, the journey benign. Touch became a comfort, a necessity, and a joy, and no man had touched Mya like Vincent had.
Like a magnet, Mya had been drawn to him. For two years through thick and thin she had stayed by his side. Supporting him when he couldn’t keep a job, loving him when he suffered through bouts of uselessness and depression, believing she could help him save him. Fix him.
But Vincent didn’t want to be saved, didn’t want to be helped, and certainly not fixed. In the end he left her when he had had his fill of her attempts. Simply told her, “It’s over,” without reason or explanation, walking out of her life refusing to explain a thing.
Mya thought she would never get over him, that every waking moment would be spent thinking of no one else. But six months and some change later she discovered that the sun had risen and set a couple of times and he had not crossed her mind once.
Back then if you’d ask her what it was that stirred her so, she couldn’t have been able to tell you. But the months since their breakup gave birth to a startling clarity.
He was a musician who had struck all her right notes, a virtuoso filling her with a melody and wholeness no other man seemed capable of. For two years they had been together and sometimes apart, but in the aftermath it felt like the best two years of her life.
Even in their worst moments Mya always felt completeness with him, and when he left, her world just about ended. She took his leaving hard, harder than she should have, but that’s the way her heart operated---extremity ruled.
Days came when she thought she couldn’t go on, wanting nothing more than to curl into a ball and die. She’d wake up in the morning, standing in front of her bathroom mirror and study herself for the reasons for his departure.
There before her would be the crinkled at the corner brown eyes, the full checks, and the half moon lips. Before her the five-foot-five body, the slight waist, full hips and near-to-do breasts.
She didn’t get her father’s naturally wavy hair. Was not the recipient of his heart-stealing honey brown eyes, but when she smiled, they lit up the world, and when she was unhappy, they consumed it.
Endless mornings found Mya studying parts of her trying to determine which flaw had sent the man of her dreams away, determined to find the fault in a landscape that overall some considered sexy.
But as days turned to weeks and weeks to months, the pain of Vincent’s leaving lessened to a dull ache and Mya gave up her quest. Defeated, she had move on, but every inch forward felt like her last.
Singlehood wasn’t easy and Mya would never tell you different, but when there was no choice, you made the most of it, which she had been doing since January.
She was smart enough to know that a man did not define her, yet her heart still searched for a reconnection, a yin to her yang. Mya didn’t feel desolate about the situation and desperation had yet to claim her. Still there were moments when she longed for the feel of him, for the warmth of his hands upon her. Moments when she dreamed of the next man who would enter her world and reawaken her with a touch.
# # #
The last bit of rib had been eaten, a handful of overcooked franks tossed to the dog. The grill had given up its fire hours ago, but there in the air hung the remnants of flame meeting wood, fatty drippings, and barbecue sauce.
Evening had come as it always did, slow, full and easy. The bright afternoon sky had shifted into a surreal softness, a lessening of light, that gradual darkness. It was a time when crickets began caroling and cicadas began their serenade. A time when night was sweet with promise—hushed, retrospective, and still.
Mya took in the dapple of streetlights illuminating the leaves of maples. She loved coming to Gail’s parent’s house for barbecues. Looked forward to the stoop sitting that came afterwards.
An evening of outdoors in the privacy of your front yard was something apartment living couldn’t give, but having parents with backyards and front stoops gave Mya and her friend Gail the privilege from time to time.
“Your momma’s ribs were slamming,” Mya said, the taste still sweet in her mouth. Gail nodded in full agreement. There was no doubt her mother could cook.
Friends since high school, there was a rich history between them. Their life together spanned a lot of years, and like money in the bank, it had turned out to be a good investment.
It was late, but neither was ready to leave yet. One Hundred and Twelve avenue was an oasis of trees and light traffic. Serenity hung in the air, and the night seemed everlasting.
“When you were young, did you have any idea that love could go bad?”
The question, not the least bit expected, gave Gail a moment’s pause. She took some time to consider before she gave her answer: “No.”
“I did,” Mya said quickly, her heart wide open. “I was ten and sitting at the dinner table. I saw my father looking at my mother and I just felt everything wrong between them.”
She looked at her hands, the recollection bringing back old pain with a new intensity. “Was kind of surprising, y’know? Love going bad…not supposed to be like milk or something, if you don’t use it by a certain date it’s gonna spoil.”
“Love ain’t always easy.”
Silence came bringing no easy answers, no quick fixes. A breeze, cool as autumn rustled around Mya’s bare arms, the bony points of her knees. She hugged herself, thought of Vincent, the question leaving her, an afterthought she wasn’t certain she should share: “Think he loved me?”
“Who?”
“Vincent.”
Gail didn’t want to talk about it. Had considered that part of her friend’s life closed. There had been nothing good there, nothing at all, but she knew Mya was waiting for an answer. Gave one. “I don’t know.”
“If love goes bad, is it really love in the first place?” Mya had sought the answer for a long time but never found the nerve to ask.
“I always felt if love hurts, then it can’t be love.”
“But sometimes it does hurt,”
“Yeah, but real love’s not suppose to.”
“But aren’t there exceptions?”
“Like?”
“Let’s say you marry the man of your dreams and then later on you meet a man who you love so much you can taste it, but you can’t be with him because you’re already married. Then that’s going to hurt.”
“But is that love or just lust?” Gail asked carefully. “Are you crazy about some other man because you love him or is the idea that you can’t have him what makes it so intense?”
Point taken. Mya sat back. Gail did to. A car went by, disturbing the quiet. They watched until its taillights disappeared, until the rumble of the engine was just a memory.
“Keep spinning Vincent around in my head.”
Gail nodded, kept quiet. Allowed her friend to have her say.
“Keep saying, ‘If only…’ but I don’t even know what. Don’t even know why he left me, y’know? And it’s like this great big puzzle with most of the pieces missing. I loved him, really loved him, Gail and he just decided to step.”
“Had to have his reasons.”
“I know that, but I just wished he had shared them with me before he split.”
Gail laughed. Shook her head. “You know that’s not how men go. They make a decision and boom, they’re gone. They don’t think about you or anybody else. Just out the door.”
“I think he did,” Mya said after a while.
“Think he did what?”
Her voice was a whisper, too fragile to support the weight of her words. “Love me.”