passing on stories

Habib hides the children under his burnoose, which he wears on cold evenings to sit at his computer and work.
When he was a child he huddled close to his mother under her full winter wool cape and walked across town to his older, married sister's house, blind to all he passed, and holding on to her clothes for balance. All that could be seen were his little feet, keeping pace with his mum.
I had a similar feeling riding on the back of my father's motorcycle, or the front, tucked under a poncho to keep me dry in the rain. I could smell the plastic of the poncho and only see the bike beneath me, the red mud road, and the puddles we splashed through below us.