My mother hugged me today, just like any other day.
She always asks for her 20 seconds,
and she always draws her head to the left side of my chest where she can feel a pulse that compliments hers.

Sometimes I hold my breath though,
to see for myself what is so captivating about the monotonous thumping of my heart,
and she pulls away,
revolts,
against the now arrhythmic stranger clasping her.

I've never seen my mother hug anyone else,
never like she did when she needed those 20 seconds.
Instead, she let her fingers hug the butts of her Virginia slims and her palms hug the base of her Chardonnay glass.
Her hands proved too far, perhaps,
As her heart remained unlit.

The house was scarcely empty, but it always felt like she was alone.
The man who she had chosen to be her partner was always around,
Loving her and showering her with gifts,
But ne'er did I see my mother be held to his heart like she was to mine.

A mother's hug is what I call it.
A hug not of a mother, but a hug for her; a hug belonging to her.
Not of selfishness, her arms reigned, but of love.
Those 20 seconds never seemed more than just 20 seconds;
never until they became mine.

In time and impudence, my arms grew heavy to lift; my heart unbothered.
My mother's didn't, but her eyes wore a shade of glass, and
her arms quietly reached out through her shamefully shielded breast.