The hug you used to cut short

You know the hug. Somebody you love came through the door with cold air on their coat and leaned in. Two seconds, a pat on the back, done. Part of you had already left the room. The cigarette kept tapping you on the shoulder mid hug.

Now nothing's tapping. You can stay. And when you stay, you notice what a rushed hug never had time for. The collar of their coat. A grandmother's sweater. A kid's hair after a bath. The way your people smell is one of the oldest ways you know you're home.

It's older than words. You'd know it blindfolded and still couldn't describe it. God built that into you, a way of knowing someone at close range. Close range is where you get to live now. You've been getting things back in categories you never thought to check. This one comes back in your arms.

Next hug you get, hold on for three slow breaths. Breathe them in. Nobody needs to know what you're doing. Somewhere in the middle of it, pray without letting go. You made them. Thanks for letting me this close. This is what free was for. Them, up close.