He would lay on his back, look at the ceiling and aimlessly talk to his grandmother. I would lie next to him impatiently listening to all their chatter. The clock would keep ticking but the two never stopped talking. When his voice would begin to sound feeble, I’d know he’d be asleep soon. I would put my hand across his tiny chest, pull myself closer to him, and lock my face in between his shoulder and jaw. He would let out a heavy sigh and in his fractured English ask me to take my hand off. I would curse myself and obediently pull my hand away, turn to my side of the bed and wait. Wait till he would fall asleep.
And such nights would be spent stealing hugs.