Remembering

Last night, I was watching "Call the Midwife" on PBS. For those of you who follow the show, one of the midwives, Chummy, is caring for her terminally ill Mother in her home. Her Mother mentions how much she'd like a pedicure, but since her relationship with her mother is minimal, Chummy cannot bring herself to do it. Sr. Monica Joan (who often converses using long excerpts from poetry) reminds Chummy using a poem from John Keats:

"Touch has a memory. O say, love, say,

What can I do to kill it and be free

In my old liberty?"

It's obviously difficult, but Chummy finds some hand cream, massages it into her mother's hands, files her 

nails and paints them a pretty pink color. At one point, Lady Browne reaches up and tenderly touches her 

daughter's face. 

Chummy says, 

"You've never done that before. 

Lady Browne replies, 

"Yes, I have. When you were very tiny."

At that point, Chummy cannot hold herself together anymore, and breaks down...crying unashamedly while sitting next to her mother in the bed. 

Only a few hours later, Lady Browne passes from earth, and Chummy was there, lying by her side until the end, holding her hand. 

I don't know why this scene touched me so much. Probably because I relate to Chummy so much. My relationship with my mother was never a tactile one, and she was not a nurturer by nature. I only recall once in my whole life that she held me when I was upset about something as a teenager. The rest of the times she touched me...

Sigh...

Was in anger. My mother hit me, bit me, slapped me, punched me, and kicked me. More than once. More than several times. Many times. I even remember her knocking me over and then hauling me up by my hair to hit me again. She was always angry it seemed. 

I wish like Chummy I could recall a time my mother touched me with love. 

But I can't.