Darlene McLeod
Yielding
My grandmother always had sensitive skin. Her flesh crawled at the thought of wearing even the softest wool; she swathed herself in ancient cottons, washed and worn to gossamer delicacy. She could bear no adhesives, her skin violently rejecting medical tape and bandages with welts in livid shades. Her bathroom always smelled of Dove soap, one of the few she could tolerate, and even a necklace chain or a coarse cloth could damage her skin, rubbing her neck raw or abrading her face. But for all that painful susceptibility, so much more could she enjoy what was soft, what was smooth, what was gentle. Sensitivity allows not only pain but the most beautiful of sensation. 50
