Back to the Garden by Selena Kitt

on the edge of the tub and talk to her. She was always bubbling over with news—where he was, how he was, that he loved us and missed us, that was all a given—the biggest news, though, was that he was safe. For that moment, in the instant when pen touched paper, he was still alive and moving in the world. That was enough for her to hold onto until the next letter.
    I loved those days, too, when she took down her long, dark hair and asked me to wash it. I can still see the water spilling down her back and over her shoulders, beading on her skin before I poured another deluge over her head. There was something so trusting and vulnerable about her posture, the way she tilted her head back, eyes closed, that took my breath away.
    There were times when I poured warm water over her hair long after any remnants of soap had been washed away. With her eyes closed, I could gaze freely on her body, at the soft, rounded curves of her waist and hips and thighs as my eyes moved in and out and around the bends. The dark triangle between her legs was just barely visible in that position, and I strained to see, wanting more, but was never satisfied. Even when she stepped out of the tub and motioned for me to hand her the towel, the dark mat of hair covered her flesh like a shroud.
    Days when she wanted to be alone, I was met with the gentle closing of her bedroom door. It was never forceful or abrupt, although it often felt that way to me, standing on the other side and listening to the sound of her opening drawers and shuffling through her clothes. If the news was particularly good, though, and she was still brimming with it, she would allow me to accompany her to the bedroom. I would sit quietly on the edge of the bed and watch her dress.
    My mother was a methodical woman, and I am much like her, now, in the slow, deliberate way I do things. Every part of her was rubbed dry, from top to bottom. She was much rougher over her sleek, soft skin than I would have been, dragging the towel over her breasts and belly, tugging it between her legs. I loved watching her dry her calves, seeing her breasts swaying and getting a brief peek at the dark patch between her legs as she bent over.
    Then she would open her drawer and pull out a pair of panties. Back then, almost all panties were made out of silk, still hand-sewn, and they fastened with buttons up one side. Most had some sort of lace or decoration on them. My mother’s underwear was exquisite. I often wondered if my father bought it for her—or if she bought it for him. The pair I still have is soft-as-butter silk, almost a flesh-color, with two mother-of-pearl buttons that fasten on each side.
    To me, there’s nothing more feminine than panties, and women are never more feminine than in the sublime moment when they’re sliding a pair on. She would bend over, giving me another glimpse between her legs as she wiggled the shimmering fabric up over her hips. I would trace the scalloped lace edges with my gaze, over her thighs, toward the apex between and, if the light was just right, I could see the dark hair underneath showing through them. The buttons were my favorite part, seeing her twist around to do them up, one on each side. The first one was always the easiest, but the second sometimes gave her trouble.
    I would wait in great anticipation on the edge of the bed to see if she would sigh and walk toward me, turning her exposed hip in my direction and asking, “Patrick, would you mind?”
    Those moments lasted years, when my fingers worked that tiny button, feeling the silk of the panties covering the velvet of her skin. She would smile a thank you, sometimes tousling my hair or chucking me under the chin as if I were still a boy.
    And part of me was grateful to be still that, to her—allowed into her room, to be a part of this, to help her bathe and dress. There were men off fighting a war in conditions I couldn’t even begin to imagine, my own father among them, and yet I was here,