Tiny hands

Whenever anyone picked me up as a baby, my tiny hands would be pressed against their chest. Arms straight out.

Some people, they'd use the hand on my back to push me into them. But, my father, he says, that when he tried to do that, my arms didn't bend right away and he was worried they would break.

On family walks, back when around the block was the furthest I could go without being carried, we'd still be in sight of the house when I'd fall behind. My parents would look back at me and slow down, and my pace would slow down too. When they stopped, there'd always be a leaf, or an insect, on the ground that I would squat down to get a closer look at. When we got back to the house, I'd catch up as the door was being opened.