I am tactile-sensitive. My entire family rolled their eyes as, during the worship music in church last Sunday, I hypnotically rocked forward to pet the feathery, squirrel-tail phragmite that made up part of a nearby window-sill autumnal decoration. A beach littered with the bodies of dead jelly-fish would have other people running for the hills while I ran for a stick. And the recent birth of con-joined puffballs in my yard sent me straight to heaven. I monitored their growth daily. Fiercely protected them from the harm of frolicking dogs or looming lawn mowers. I considered setting up a web-cam. Last week, as I lovingly stroked the head of a beluga, I compared it, in texture, to my little puffballs.
When they finally swelled to the desired C-cup size, I knew my time with them was limited. Their youthful vitality began to droop. Brown age spots began to appear on the blindingly white globes. Sagging, they didn't energetically "bounce back" when handled. "No," I cried, clutching them to me, mourning the loss of my moldy melons. Brad was oddly empathetic. "Time touches us all," he said, prying me from my puffballs. "C'mon, honey," he coaxed, leading me across the lawn, "I think I have some bubble-wrap in the house."
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