I am sure there was a time when I was able to reach down and grab my ankle and put my baby feet into my mouth.

Sadly, I have no recollection of that act of discovery, but I have witnessed the same act of suppleness countless times in babies over the years.

This morning, as I was drying my body from my head to my toes after emerging from the shower, I became conscious of the presence of my feet.

The drying process, starting at my head, with the towel working down my body, always down across my back, under my arms and across my abdomen, reaching over the flesh filled bottom, and lifting my left leg before my right, momentarily onto the bathside, rolling the towel down my thighs, over my knees to the calves and finally to my feet.

My feet, so far away from it all, the last part of me to be caressed in the enveloping towel, not now as dry as it was when it was at my head only a few moments ago.

My feet, carrying the weight of me, carrying the burden of my body, but also my tormented heart and exploding mind. What to do?, what to do?, what to do?

So many questions, but my feet, go about their function to take me where I need to go, despite that my mind may be in anguish and turmoil.

Good, loyal feet, you carry my heart, you support my flesh and bones, you overcome the struggles of my mind, the worries, the fear and anxiety.

How I so wished today, that with my baby reach, I could have reached down and pulled you to my lips, to kiss and caress you once again as I used to do at the start of my life.

William Defoe