Sarah L Dixon is based in a Huddersfield (UK) valley. Sarah’s inspiration comes from beer gardens, being by/in water and towpath and moor adventures with her son, Frank (11). Sarah has had recent acceptances for Spelt, Prole and Rialto. Sarah is hosting and planning an arts council funded Quiet Compere live and online tour for 2022. www.thequietcompere.co.uk

I know the squeeze of my son,
as I tuck him in,
one arm out of the covers
to pat my shoulder.
Affection from a ten-year-old
who has always flinched from a kiss.
I know the warmth of blanket cuddles
while watching films.
The squirm and wriggle of eight limbs,
never quite finding the right position
for comfort.
I know the quick encircling of surprised thanks
when he responds before he even knows it.

But I don’t remember
how adult hugs work.
Where do we put our arms?
Above others if taller?
Below if shorter?
What if our heights match?
Is that best or more awkward?

Do we ask permission to hug?
i did this once.
‘Do you do hugs?’
‘Not really!’ was the answer
and a tentative back touch.

Then, there was that three-minute hug.
A hug from a fleeting friend
who was there when I needed him.
Wild hair and poet’s hope.
That’s what he said we both had.
His hugs were legendary
at 6ft 10 and half as wide.
(My son walked the perimeter of the gallery.
Returned mid-hug. Smiled and sighed.
Went around a second time.)
This hug is still in my core.
When I was broken by separation
this three minutes
pulled all my parts back to where they are supposed to be.
I had flown apart
and in The Whitworth Art Gallery
I was whole once more.

The hug pulled them back in
from the stairways,
the viewing gallery,
the skirting,
through the rotating doors,
down from high, domed ceilings,
from crimson in the Miro painting
and in the greys of Valette rain.