Touch

Madre has always been an odd type of mother. In nineteen years of life I've never seen her express any kind of affection towards her children: no sweet words, caresses or hugs. Plus, she's incredibly foul-mouthed. -Looks like I inherited all of that.
If I think about it, I don't think I've ever even held her hand. The closest thing to a gentle stroke from her that I think of is when she used to comb my hair every morning before school. Nothing special, mind you. It was just a chore, a duty she fulfilled in silence, with not much grace too (those were dark times for my hair), while scolding the hell out of everyone.
It isn't much, for sure, but that's all.

Anyway, this is my entry for Quindayo's contest about gratitude and love. Kinda.
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