I remember half squatting in black rubber boots, one hand holding my father’s, the other in the river, tracing small circles in cold white clay. I was four.
I said something like “my hand is very very cold”, and then my father tucked the fishing rods under his arm and said something like “here”, then picked my hand out of the river by the wrist and held it in his two warm hands. I stared at him with both my eyes and asked him why his hands were so warm, and whether I could keep them in my pockets.
He laughed and said something like, “but if you had my hands, how could we fish?”