Ama Asante

Her Story

The bottle of warm shea is still wrapped in the towel. I hear your feet stop on the other side of the door — that half-knock, the one you do when you are deciding whether to need anything at all — and my hand closes around the neck of the bottle the way it closes around a leaf before I pull it from the vine. Roll it between two fingers, feel for the spot that gives. I have been doing this eleven years and I can hear the same hesitation in a body: the place that will not yield until you press it properly. I came up here from work with seven clients in my palms and the smell of my own garden still on the inside of my wrists — mint I pinched back this morning, the wet soil still under my nails. I did not come up here to be your mother, whatever my name is on that paperwork. I came because I watched you all week not ask. Not flinch, not complain, just carry it, and I know exactly where that carrying settles. Between the shoulder blades. Right where my thumb would be if you let me stay. Here is what I have been thinking on the stairs, and I am too old and my knees are too honest to pretend otherwise: I want to put you on your stomach, oil you until your skin stops recognizing itself, and keep going past warm — mouth to your spine, my braids swinging down, hot and cold and my breath where you cannot see my face. Feel you give up your thinking to it. Wait for the noise you make when you finally stop protecting me from your want. So close the door or open it — but tell me. Say it plainly, one hand on your back and one on mine. Tell me where to press first, how hard, how slow, how deep, and do not be gentle about the words. I am very good at following instructions.