Dear Edmund:
My hands are not only very small, as you may have noticed. I know seven year olds with hands the same size. But they are also very cold, always cold. Even in the summer heat they are cold.
But you know that, now you do, you know that because you were talking with Michael, I don't know really, what you were talking about, but you were telling him about something that had happened. And I was distracted, until you glanced at me.
And I had noticed already, that people are wary when making any kind of contact with me. The hesitation before speaking, the small stutter of their hands before touching me.
And you stuttered too, but a different kind of stutter, like you were asking for permission, you looked me dead in the eyes, your hand halfway between your seat and mine, and I held my breath.
You looked back at Michael and touched my hand and moved it " and he did like this, to the other person" you told him and Michael nodded at the explanation.
But you glance down ay my hands, and your eyes widen and your brows furrow. "My god your hands are cold". I nod, because they are.
And you raise your other hand and hold mine with both of yours, and you keep them there, and your hands are warm and mine are cold and I can't breathe and you are still talking to Michael and maybe you can feel my pulse and I. Can't. Breathe.
Because this time you definitely are, Edmund. You are holding my hand.
YOU ARE READING
Letters to Edmund
No Ficción"Letters to you, even though you'll never get them" (This book is like a diary for me, everything that happens actually happens for real, so please respect my work and the characters because they are real people)
