I feel his palm warm against my skin, a slight movement of his fingers as his hand finally settles. Tired, I only want to sleep, impatient and silently praying for him to eat quickly so I can go back to bed. The memory is now barely there, the act of his hand grabbing onto my arm as I feed him lost, unappreciated in its simplicity.
It pains me to look back at the moments I let go by without a second glance not understanding how the passing of time is a mirage with seemingly no end in sight.
Seven years have passed since that night and as we walk through the mall looking for back to school clothes he places his hand in mine. I slow my pace, savor the warmth of his skin and concentrate on how he squeezes my fingers each time he speaks. His skin is still baby soft, the size all little boy. Too soon his hand is pulling away to race off with his brother. I want nothing more than to grab on and never let it go, knowing that someday this tiny hand will be larger than mine, the times for me to hold it growing fewer and farther between.
Today there is no illusion, only the warmth left by his hand.