Cold

Like with most of my memories from that period, this one is hazy, everchanging, and takes a different shape every time you examine it. And yet, sometimes, it’s as perfect as a slide you put in one of those slide projectors; I seem to have a lot of those.

It was cold. And we were cold.

The rain seemed to pour forever that day, and off in the distance, the thunder growled. The train broke down again that day, and we were rather far from home for two kids. Somewhere at the intersection, amidst the cones of light from cars, was an endless crowd of people trying to find a way home.

And in that crowd, there we were, trying to figure out if we had enough money to hail a cab. Crumpled notes, loose change and all.

By the time we had clambered into one, it was dark. And the rain just kept falling. Your hands in mine were so cold, even colder than usual. My jacket was around you, and you pulled the sleeves down further; your small frame leaning into me.

In the rearview mirror, I saw our reflections. We looked so tired. You frown sometimes in your sleep, as if something constantly hung on your mind. As they often did.

The driver makes light chatter. He talks about the weather. He talks about his own kid that’s about our age. He asks if the school we go to is hard to get in, because she really wants to go there too. He talks about her like she’s his favorite person in the world.

She probably is.

By the midpoint of the trip, I feel like she’s a long-lost friend I’ve never met. I know how she studies really late. She’s not very good at math but she’s trying. She’s so young, but she tries her best to care for her little brother. She sounds familiar in more ways than one.

You are long asleep by now. Your breathing is shallow, and you’re shivering. The air-conditioning is on low, but your skin feels even icy now. Your fingers are entwined in mine, as they often are because you got cold easily.

The driver’s still talking. I think he’s happy talking to me. He talks about what it was like when driving taxis back then. It was a tougher job back then, because you really had to know directions well. He tells me he misses his old cab; it had a manual transmission and those radios that always crackled with static.

You drift in and out of slumber, restless as always. Sometimes, the conversation turns poignant, and you grip my hand tighter unconsciously. Or maybe I gripped yours tighter. You joke that all you did was to make me colder by holding my hand. But all I knew was that it made me feel a little warmer inside.

We are almost reaching your place. The conversation is still going on. He says his daughter plays the piano, although she’s still figuring out. I say I know a great pianist, although she would probably deny it. She played a really nice song for me a long time ago.

In the dim light of the streetlamps, I think you smiled a little when you heard that. Or maybe it was just my imagination.

We reach, and I nudge you. You ask the driver to please send me home safely. I let go of your hand, and you tell me to text when I’m home. You seemed a little brighter when you got off, more like your normal self.

Your hands didn’t feel as cold.

That night was when I lost the bracelet you gave me. It was always wrapped around the one I usually wore, the colored beads entwined around it. The original string broke, and I tied it to mine, so I’ll never lose it.

But I lost it anyways.

Maybe, it slipped off when I let go of your hand. Maybe, it’s sitting under the seats of a old taxi with a friendly uncle driving it. He didn’t even mind when I was short of money to pay him.

I never found a bracelet like that again. But you told me it was alright.

Because I’m still holding your hand.