The number of times she has walked into my head are ten times more than the one slow walk we shared.
A voice called to me while I stood waiting by the large library doors.
"Can you walk me to my car?"
I offer her my arm and knobby hands hang on tight while we walk slow.
Her white-gray hair is soft below my shoulder. I bend my head down to listen to her vinyl record voice.
Did she sense my strong urge to protect and see that she was taken care of well?
Did I sense her own independence?
Will someone walk me slow one day too? I gently close her car door.
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