I listened to a podcast years ago about cold case victims, about people whose loved ones are finally found after years, often as skeletons. About the family who are called in to see, even if the victim is past identification. The speaker said that one thing these people all have in common -- no matter how long they've been waiting, no matter the condition of the remains, no matter how hopeful they were or weren't about ever seeing their loved ones again-- is that they groom. They see the remains and they always, always do something to care for them. They pick a piece of moss off a bone. They straighten an arm, they tuck in a lock of hair. Every time. Every one.
And I think about our distant ancestors, how before language they strengthened relationships by grooming, like our nearest cousins still do. How the basest, most instinctual expression of love seems to be a sort of gentle pampering, a correction of appearance, a gentle hand to return you to your best self. I think about how the first thing I do when I see my dog is stroke her head, and then check for extra tufts of shed hair clinging to her body which might make her itch. About plucking bits of dandruff off my cat. About how badly I wanted to tuck my childhood crush's hair behind her ear. About how my girlfriend and I kept our relationship secret at work for 4 years, only to be undone by someone seeing me silently fix her collar, pluck an errant hair from her shirt. My mom licking her finger and using it to rub a spot of dirt off my face. My brother fixing my hat. And I think about bones, how when the archeologists find prehistoric graves, the bones arranged just so, that they say, this. This is how we know these people were human.
