I return home from school. Mom opens the door for me.
“What are we having for dinner?”
She looks at me as you would look at a small child who is wounded.
“No, not minestrone, no … ”
I tell her that I got an eight in Philosophy, but even before I specify the topic, she embraces me strongly, hiding my face in the hollow of her neck.
I smell Mom’s perfume, a smell that has given me a sense of tranquility since I was a child: a perfume that is a mixture of roses and lemons. Light. But she isn’t hugging me because of my grade, otherwise her tears wouldn’t be wetting my face. Only then do I understand.
I’d like to escape, but she doesn’t let go of me, and I sink my fingers into her flesh to feel if what she is telling me without uttering a single word is true.
My mother is the only woman I have left.
The only skin I have left.