Granddaughter

We are walking together
across the blazing blacktop.
Sweat blossoms
on my lip and brow.
She is talking, talking, talking.

Her hand,
as if it knows its own language,
the language of trust,
the language of security,
reaches for mine.

Hot and sticky,
it doesn’t matter
because this is how
we walk together,
palm to sweaty palm.

She has no idea
how the love
she places in my hand
grounds me,
extends my life
both forward and back.
I can think of no more
cherished honor.

I remember how my girls and I
walked through those early years
hand in hand
and how hard it was
to let go.

One day soon,
she will no longer
reach instinctively
for my hand.

But for now,
we walk contentedly
together-
she, still talking
and I,
just embracing the blessing
of her.

By Maria Brady-Smith
Photo by Mike Smith