home is here and now

She is beautiful, a little plump and a little older … she plunges into my flesh with a vigour and lack of self-consciousness that both scares and delights me.

She clucks her tongue and utters a phrase in lyrical Thai. “Pretty woman,” she says, “you are full of knots!” I know this solely because my Bangkok-born, splendidly bilingual friend Nam tells me so. My laugh turns into a wheeze as the masseuse brings my leg into (what should have been) an impossible twist.

It’s Friday night and Nam and I have just had an enormous meal with her family. I hope the masseuse doesn’t get to see the remains of it.

As I grunt, gasp and jerk involuntarily, I stick my neck out to see how Nam’s doing. Squinting in the dark, I see a sight that makes me rather incredulous and, unexpectedly, jealous. Eyes closed, she appears to be smiling serenely, her limbs moving like those of a well-oiled puppet in the rhythmic hands of her masseuse.

“You okay with level two?” Nam asks sleepily.

Level what?

“She has five levels of massage, she’s using level two with you,” explains Nam.

I’m a tiny bit curious about level five, but decide with the more sensible part of my brain that it would not be a good idea. It would feel worse than diving headfirst into an ocean of feisty vindaloo.

The masseuse applies what feels like a lethal dose of force (how can this be level two of five?) to my knotty body but I stay on the bed. Her smile is so sweet and I know this will be good for me.

Suffering continues for a while but eventually gives way, thankfully, to a notable lightness in my body. Yes, my muscles are saying “thank you”.

Time becomes a series of movements, grimaces, happy sighs. My eyelids get heavy and I toy with the idea of taking a light nap.

But then a sudden rush of something makes my eyes open wide, get teary. For a second or two, I feel disoriented, thrown.

And then I know.

She reminds me of Grandma's matter-of-fact, tender and vigorous nature: chop-chop, get going! But I'll comb your hair every night and hug you till you know you are loved. (Not that she ever said those words; just her actions spoke).

Oh, I haven’t had the time and space since the funeral to miss her, really miss her.

As the next wave of pain approaches, I lean in, glad for the cool, dark room; grateful for my warm, skilled masseuse. And I let myself miss the woman who introduced me to love.

Two hours after we stepped in, I feel properly untangled and – for the moment, at least – I am on top of the world.