Cold feet

Do you remember when we took your first steps together? It was a hot summer. That day, the sun was just beginning to wake us all to life, including your mother, who had been with us from the start of our journey. Your first step was uncertain and wobbly, and you quickly lost your balance, falling into your mother’s arms. She joyfully encouraged you to keep trying. Each subsequent step was taken with growing confidence until we were finally able to support you.

From then on, we could go anywhere we wanted. It seemed like the world was wide open before us. There were so many places you wanted to go. Do you remember our first trip to the seaside? We felt the blissful warmth of the sun-heated sand, every grain shifting beneath us. And the water? At first touch, you jumped back because it was icy cold, but you quickly got used to it, and the laughter and play had no end.

We were with you in every moment of your life. Even when your steps became slower and heavier. When walking was no longer just a pleasure but had become a necessity. We kept moving forward.

But one fateful day, something happened—something that tore us apart. We wonder if there was anything we could have done for you then. Could we have taken a different path? Could we have run faster? It seems that none of it matters now because we are surrounded by an all-encompassing cold and darkness. A cold so different from the one we felt touching the icy sea.

This cold is foreign and empty. It carries nothing with it. Is it because we feel nothing anymore? Was death our final step together?