I’m leaving now, stay warm.

I can still feel the ghost of your hands tucking a scarf closer around my neck. I can still hear you humming that little song you sing to me at breakfast, this time to yourself, more slowly, tinged with a lightness forgotten in the haste of getting me ready for school. At the doorstep at the edge of the playground now, kneeling next to me, checking my backpack strap once, twice. Then a quick smile. I’m leaving now—small squeeze on my arm. Stay warm. Then your receding figure, your black hair fluttering over the hood of your winter coat. Those spectral hands of memory reanimate with the flesh of the present; more wrinkles now on the knuckles, more blue veins visible under thinning skin. I won’t hug you, you say to me, because my hands have cracked again. Red flashes under a lifted glove. But they are the same hands. I hug you anyway, feeling your shoulders stiffen in surprise before you sigh and say, you’re all grown up now—look at you—even taller than I am. But if you go out today you still have to promise me you’ll wear a scarf. Can’t afford to get sick just because you’re on a holiday. Then you give me a quick smile. Okay, I’m leaving now—small squeeze on the arm—stay warm. I watch you turn away and realize your hair is tinged with grey.