I grew up without touching people much; I didn’t use to hug, caress, hold hands. That was reserved for predetermined occasions, in which they were normal and didn’t make myself exposed.
However, I remember me on road trips, travelling by car with my family, that I used to lie down over my mother “because there was no more space”. I pretended to fall asleep but was having the best of my trips. My secret was the enormous comfort it gave me to fit my head and neck in any part of my mom’s body. I felt something deep and pleasant in my heart and a pulsing welfare throughout myself. I felt plenty connected with her as a human being and with my human body, mind and soul.
That was a moment of happiness in which I perceived each of my muscles, bones and organs being exactly where they should be.
My skin acting velvet, my bones building gears and my organs becoming for a moment palpable tissues. Healing me.
Finding my body’s reason for being. That body I don’t normally understand and seems to obstruct my mind, suddenly unveils.
My bones show for a moment that they are not hard, dry and compact. They are so full of life that exhale up to the skin and merge.
Finally‐but always present‐the imminent pain of separation. The HATE for having had the skin so close and the bones so embedded. The pain for having those rigid things inside you. The desire of being mashed. Or powder. Of not possessing bones and never having had them. That is how I meet my bones.

© 2019 ALNB