When he left, he stood on the porch for a few seconds with his hands tucked into his coat pockets.

“Could we have dinner sometime?” he asked.

“Somewhere without a hospital tray or a box of old paperwork?”

“I’d like that.”

He hesitated, then hugged me.

It was brief and careful, mindful of my stitches.

My first hug from my grown son lasted perhaps three seconds.

I remembered every one of them.