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.