Grey and green. I cling to Mom's forest green pleather jacket and attempt to bury my face against its cold surface. She holds me, laughing and chatting in a flow of Dutch sentences that I feel rumbling through her chest. The air is metallic and sharp. It whistles through the crevices and pinches my eyes, my cheeks, my nose. Voices--Oma, Opa, Dad. I look up. A gust smacks against my face and sucks my breath away so that I gasp, fish-faced. There is laughter, cooing, teeth.