Pressure

by Alicia Andrzejewski

Pressure

I grab my daughter’s hand and pull her away from the road, jerking my head to look for cars. Another close call, I think, perturbed. As we begin to walk, I suddenly feel her tiny thumb press into my trapezium, gliding up to trace the other bones in my hand. She clenches her fingers around mine and moves them in little circles, following me towards the front door

I suck in a breath, thinking I’m about to chuckle. Then I pause, swallow, and realize I’m about to cry. 

 If my daughter is attentive, and she usually is, I’ve taught her it’s normal to stare at a screen for hours—that coffee is an integral part of existence. I’ve taught her eating before dinner is optional, but pop tarts are a sufficient breakfast otherwise. I’ve taught her how to make passive-aggressive comments instead of asking for what she needs. I’ve taught her to wince when she sees her reflection, to chew on the skin around her nails.

 In this moment, though, I realize I’ve also taught her how to run her fingers along bones buried in flesh, to marvel at bodily intimacy. I’ve taught her how to be present for the person whose hand is clasped in hers, how to press the pads of her fingers into this hand to offer comfort. I’ve taught her that bodies can come together in ways that are full of delight—and that she can relish in this pressure.

 I pause and look down at her, smiling as I circle and press my own thumb into the back of her hand. As I always do.

Alicia Andrzejewski is an assistant professor in William & Mary’s English department. Her work has appeared in The Chronicle, Literary Hub, American Theater, The Boston Globe, and other publications. Her current book project, Queer Pregnancy in Shakespeare’s Plays, argues for the transgressive force of pregnancy in his oeuvre and the expansive ways in which early modern people thought about the pregnant body.