Years later, as he holds his new daughter & marvels at her tiny feet, he finds himself remembering the freckle on the bottom of May’s right foot. There in that green room on the top floor of the house, the sunlight poured unfiltered through the bare windows & onto their bodies. They examined each other’s flaws after making love: pale secret skin usually covered by clothes, the scar that interrupted the line of his eyebrow, the ungraceful knob of her knee, the mole on his back that looked like a coiled slug, the dark coarse hair that grew on her thigh.
They would pore over one another’s bodies silently, tenderly, not speaking but often brushing the spot of interest. He would hold her feet in his hands & rub the small brown mote resting in the arch. She would struggle not to laugh. Once she broke the silence and said, “Lee tells me a freckle there could be cancer. She says I should get it biopsied.” He listened & after a minute said, “I couldn’t imagine you without it.” Her smile was lost in the wash of light breaking over her auburn head.
Now, years later, as he pulls a piece of fuzz from his daughter’s toes, he wonders if she ever did get the biopsy.