The feet of baby

The feet of baby

So new and delaminated the feet of baby inspires those who admire immature perfection, to squish and kiss them lovingly.

Being propelled as an adult to do so marks a certain point in our continuum that time can never reverse. We are old, sure footed and thickened beyond belief. Our feet are crusted over, twisted and at the point of revulsion. But those twinkling paddles were once ours too. Perhaps because they most accurately resemble the adult form, comically shrunk down to microns. Each foot a small purse of exquisite fruit jubes. They are still unvarnished by the world – cherubic – not yet landed to earth and we want to gobble them up.

They are a special delicacy for grannies who can sniff them out at fifty paces.

Features like these were the subjects of Renaissance artists for their fidelity and purity. They represented the omnipresence of God, if slightly mischievous. Maybe then the desire to kiss those minature feet is our yearning to connect with a universal love.

Of playfully pinching the chubby digits, popping each one like a plump little grape.