This is how my mother and I hold on to each other. She, with her gentle touch, applies coconut oil to all the places that hurt. The oil melts in her rugged hands, and yet there can be nothing softer than the way she handles me. She plaits my hair into a braid, weaning her pain in and out, and I try my best to carry her grief with the same gentleness. 

We sit in silence, and I am hit with a loud reminder:

We don’t touch each other often enough, don’t embrace as much as we used to.

Instead of asking her for a hug, I offer to oil her hair in return. I am met with an ocean of grey and black strands.

I keep forgetting that we are running out of time.