Did you ever feel a baby's hand clench round your finger,
How tightly the grip,
The delight,
Neither of you wants to let go.
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December slunk in,
Like a dog with its tail between its legs,
Sorrowful eyes,
Guilty,
Apologetic.
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The forecast was snow, but, inevitably it fell as rain. We gathered up our packages and bundled them into the car. It's not far, just a few miles up the road but it may as well be Mars because we're not allowed to touch or even be anywhere inside with each other. It's a rule we're all considering to break.
Earlier in the year it felt easy; the weather was good, we could meet and go for short walks, look at each other's faces, listen to the tenure of your voices, the way you hold yourselves, sense how you're coping. The sun made it reassuring, we could get out.
But now as the shortest, darkest day approaches, deep winter closing in, the threat of flood, the inevitable cold, our confidence dissolves into the heavy rain and we stand in the car park, handing over the carefully chosen and wrapped gifts, my inevitably embarrassing cake, like contraband.
It's dismal and so we cave in and find refuge in the car, huddled and shivering. We make light of it, talk of the coming summer and hopes for travel; it's possible, if we get the right visas, maybe a vaccination, or two.
You're young and it's a special birthday, one that's been marred before by the death of your grandma; we're actutely aware of the sorrow hanging there in the air, but we make our small talk, sending our best wishes through the undercurrent of our words, our loving glances, hoping you will feel our pride in how you've coped, what you've become, despite the dismal failure of the day.
Waving our goodbyes, we're determined not to be too sad. Look to the future. We're here now.
It's a gift.
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