He looked down at the girl
Whose eyes were searching
For the other man in her life.
She had changed over the years,
From the little one,
Whose temper tantrums
And cries of “Lift me, Appa!”
Echoed in the streets,
To the mature woman standing before him,
Who didn’t need to be picked up,
And lead him instead,
As they crossed the same street.
One thing remained the same, though.
Her grip on his hand,
And on her innocence, on love,
Remained as strong as it was
When she first grasped his finger.