Wigs and Worry Stones

On the back of your head is a bald spot. The skin there has been worried into a smooth, pale oval. I know it is from all the sleeping you do on your back, but every time I see it, I think of a gift often given in the mid-90's: worry stones.

Worry stones were manufactured stones, two inches long, that contained a thumb-shaped indentation in the center. Above the indentation, or on the other side of the stone, was inscribed a word, something positive, abstract, and a little elusive: "joy," "faith," "love," hope," etc. The bearer of the stone could carry it in her pocket or purse and, when feeling especially anxious, rub her fears into the stone. Theoretically.

It looks a little bit like God has been doing this to the back of your head.

Today my top two worries are: freezing rain and a rash that has spread across your belly and chest.

This morning, when I went out to write, there were pinprick-sized balls of sleet all across the hood of the car. This morning, when I changed your diaper, there were pinprick-sized red dots across your abdomen.

Usually I am obsessed with image, color, things seen and unseen, but today it is texture I am hungry for. I want smooth skin where the rash resides and I want soft downy hair on the back of your head where you have none.

Already, you are 16 years old and we are at the Clinique counter, looking for skin cream for your belly.

Already, we are trying on wigs for the prom, so that when your date puts his hand at the back of your head to draw your mouth to his for a kiss, he does not feel that patch of bare skin, does not think you have a naked mole rat nested in your hair.

You choose a dark bob with bangs. And your date turns out to be gay. Which makes you terribly sad and makes me terribly happy because at 2am you are back home, in the safety of our kitchen, still in your slithery turquoise dress, your pantyhose, now full of runs, bunched into a nude ball on the table next to you. You put your cold feet in my lap and I nod my head and think how you are still too young for there to be splotches of mascara in the pouches below your eyes.

And I think that night as I do all nights how close I am to losing you--or, perhaps how I have lost you, in some small way, but you have come back to me. In this dream my worry is a spell that keeps you safe and brings you home.