Cobblestone Streets

We walk down cobblestone streets.
I hold tiny hands
while a girl, maybe fourteen

whispers to her friend,
"My Momma used to hold my hand like that."
I look down and see

your brother,
those big blue eyes
like yours, but not--young, naive.
He smiles and turns to

your sister
as she toddles along.
A pair of pants on her head,

making sense of the uneven path before her,
and I can't help but wonder

how lucky can one person be?