Simple intimacy

A mother sits with her child at the kitchen table. Eyes tired, bloodshot. Knees shaking, swollen. Hands at the mercy of arthritis. Her face folds in a manner that suggests it had smiled once, a long time ago.

The boy squirms on the chair, wearing a worn pair of blue pajamas. He is about four years old, wire thin. Tongue stuck out in concentration, he attempts to slather his name in crayon on a brown paper bag. He fusses when his mother smooths a strand of hair from his eyes, flushes when praised.

It gets late. The mother runs some hot water for the boy, bathes him even though he screams about shampoo getting into his eyes. Scowls when tucked under the covers. Squeals when kissed goodnight.

The mother returns to the kitchen, makes herself a cup of tea. Sits down and wraps a blanket around bony shoulders, shaky hands bringing the cup to her face. She sits there, leaden teardrops falling from tired eyes. She sits there, waiting. Waiting for someone - anyone - to kiss her, praise her, wish her goodnight.