I took no offense at the assumption made in such a gift, namely that I have dead skin. I have never shown her my heels, though perhaps she caught a glimpse since I wear Birkenstocks. But the gift came in winter, when my Birks are tucked in the closet with the bathing suits.   

It is a nice feeling, when the callouses fall off and newer skin has a chance to reach the air. My feet take a beating, from tromping in the chicken yard and three sets of stairs. 

Last night John thanked me for the gentle way I get Ben ready for school. We chat about Wall-e over cereal, and do factors between sips of juice. He loves his handmade pottery bowl and cup, and will hand wash them if they are not clean. It's a sweet few minutes before the bus comes. Today I kissed him, even though he is sixteen and taller than me. He did not pull back. 

It hasn't always been this way. Ben and I have had our rough spots, where lifeless words covered over how we really felt. He hollered and pushed over chairs, I hollered back and revoked privileges. 

The peeling away happened gradually, slowly, the way skin grows. But new cells fare better when the dead ones are scraped off. Sarcasm had to go. Blame too. 

The other day Ben broke a glass and was escalating into a fervor. Rather than add to his pain I tried a softer approach. 

"Ben how much do I love that glass?"

"A LOT!" he blurted. 

"Actually, only a little." I showed him with the small spread of my hands. 

"But how much do I love YOU?" He paused. His shoulders released.

"A lot," he said hesitantly. 

"A WHOLE LOT!" I reached my hands as wide as they would go. 

The old ways of speaking fell to the floor, making room for fresh ones.