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Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Hands

I grab their hands as we leave the park. His left hand in my right. Her right hand in my left. I squeeze them tight as we cross the street.

His hand is cold. His fingers feel like little icicles despite the seasonally warm November day. It's just like my hand whenever I am outside for more then five minutes. Gloves were offered but of course he wouldn't wear them.

Her hand is warm. I am started by the heat radiating from it. She is a portable furnace, that girl, happy to run through the park in only a t-shirt while I huddle in my coat. My own hand begins to warm just from holding hers.

On the sidewalk they both let go and run ahead of me. Suddenly empty handed, I follow behind them.

2 comments:

  1. I think children must generate a lot of heat just by growing. I'm amazed to see them running around the school yard with no coats on, while I'm shivering in my boots.

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  2. Having small hands to hold is always a joy. One day they will take the mittens that you offer to them

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