I feel his palm warm against my arm, a slight movement of his fingers as his hand finally settles. Tired, I only want to sleep, impatient and silently wishing for him to feed 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 breastfeed 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.
Years later we are walking through the mall searching for back to school clothes. He places his hand in mine. I slow my pace, savoring the warmth of his skin. I concentrate on how he squeezes my fingers each time he speaks. His skin is still baby soft, a softness that will be gone in another few short years.
Too soon he pulls away his hand to race off with his brother.
In this moment I want nothing more than to grab on and never let it go because now I know 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 mirage. I now know how swiftly time can pass and I am left with only the fading warmth left by his hand.