Amelia sits in the chair closest to the fireplace with a blanket over her lap and one of my sweaters swallowing her whole.
My chest tightens every time I look at her hands.
Her entire left pinky is gone.
So are two toes.
The doctors used terms I’ll never forget.
Prolonged cold exposure.
Vascular compromise.
Raynaud’s.
Ischemic necrosis.
Words too clean for what they meant.
The basement was too cold. Her body was too stressed. Her circulation failed in the places already most vulnerable. By the time I found her, some of the tissue couldn’t be saved.
Her nose healed.
Thank God.
At first, it had been pale, then angry and tender, the skin damaged from cold exposure but not deep enough to scar. The doctors watched it closely. Treated it gently. Eventually, color returned. No scar stayed behind.
But not all of her fingers and toes healed.
The first time she cried over it, she tried to apologize to me.
As if her body had done something wrong by surviving.
As if losing pieces of herself meant I would love the rest of her less.
I spent that night on my knees in front of her with her hand against my mouth, kissing every finger she had left and the parts of the ones missing until she stopped saying she was sorry.
She still has moments.
Quiet ones.
Moments where she forgets and reaches for something with the hand that changed.
Moments where she stands too fast and has to adjust her balance.
Moments where she thinks I don’t see her staring at her foot when she changes socks.
I see.
I always see.
But I also see this.
Amelia laughing softly as Stefano says something ridiculous to Olivia.
Amelia alive.
Amelia warm.
