Mothers can�t keep their hands to themselves.

They are always smoothing and tucking and tugging and plucking and hugging and brushing.

They make up non-existent lint just as an excuse to brush your shoulder. One errant strand standing at attention brings five fingers combing through your hair. One smudged cheek and out comes the industrial-sized box of tissue. Once indeed, you were just another part of her. She breathed for you, her heart beat for you, she bled for you. It is as though it takes your entire lifetime, not just the 18 years allotted by law, for her hands to realize that you�re not still hers.

The tie-straightening, the tag-tucking, the earring-securing becomes a wordless ritual for her that means, �I love you.� �You make me proud.� �Be careful.� �I�m here for you.� You endure. Then squirm away, a game you perfected at 6 that means, �I know, mom, I know.�

The other day after lunch, I was standing outside of Suzi�s talking to a friend. The wind had blown a bit of fluff into my hair. She reached up and plucked it out � two fingered � before wiping it away on her slacks.

It wasn�t the same.

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