The other night Michael and I watched a short Greek film about a man who had lost his arms in a motorcycle accident. Though his physicality was peculiar—the eerie way his body moved lacking the weight and balance of his arms—he got around fine and was able to open a flat silver case, extract a cigarette and light it using the fleshy stubs that protruded from his floppy t-shirt sleeves. Inside their modest apartment his companion helped him to dress and to eat. The two were very simply happy and in love, though at night he continued to dream of having his arms.
During a solo visit to her parent’s house the girlfriend spoke openly and fondly of her man. Her mother seemed to understand the love she had for him but the woman’s father had only contempt and anger toward the man with no arms who loved his daughter. His concern was for his daughter’s long-term well being and happiness.
While in a rant the father cried, “but how can he hug you?” She chuckled, rocked back on her heels. Then she leaned in close to her father, her arms tight to her sides.
She pressed cheek to cheek—intimately—her chin nuzzled into his neck, her peaked shoulder hugging his jaw, letting her full weight sink into his body.
Her father, who had arms, had no words.
During a solo visit to her parent’s house the girlfriend spoke openly and fondly of her man. Her mother seemed to understand the love she had for him but the woman’s father had only contempt and anger toward the man with no arms who loved his daughter. His concern was for his daughter’s long-term well being and happiness.
While in a rant the father cried, “but how can he hug you?” She chuckled, rocked back on her heels. Then she leaned in close to her father, her arms tight to her sides.
She pressed cheek to cheek—intimately—her chin nuzzled into his neck, her peaked shoulder hugging his jaw, letting her full weight sink into his body.
Her father, who had arms, had no words.
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| Flickr.com by Robert in Toronto |
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