She would hold my hand

and look at me.

Pearls in her eyes,

like mine.

I don't have her eyes,

hers are blue,

mine are green,

but I could see myself in hers,

a faint mirror image

like looking into a lake.

Pearls on her cheeks,

whiter than mine.

I have young cheeks,

still burning red,

reacting like a traffic light,

to everything new and exciting.

She said that changes,

when you're older.

We sat there,

mine hand in hers.

I don't have hands like that,

hers are long like pianists,

wrinkled and full of character,

interesting hands.

Mine are young and smooth,

like a dolls hands.

So small they disappeared,

when we held hands.

And so freezing cold,

I would take her hands,

just to steal a little warmth.