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Wednesday, November 17, 2010


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.


  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.

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