Tender look, her hair waves like angel creases. Stand taller, I tell myself, I could be eight years old right now. Clutching on to her two fingers, basking in her expression. Teacher, talk soft- show me the world. Orbs reflect lightening, stricken by their familiarity, I am greeted by wonder. I follow her, questions pour selfishly, I gather her answers like jelly beans and stuff them into my pockets- gorge. I find myself looking both ways- but watch her move first. YetÂ Iâ€™m stuck looking left, right. What is right? She shifts. Conflict- fretting her small steps that are gaps of distance- street light-street sign- my heavy hands. Sheâ€™s farther away, her heart a reflection in the corner of a rained out puddle. I fumble, flustered, cumbersome hands anxiously grip the nape of my neck, finger the locks of my hair. Looking over- pulled- I yearn to walk behind her swaying hips- her eloquent tongue. She gracefully fingers the chain lace fence, countenance brightening at the one way sign sheâ€™s walking against. I yell to warn her-scream myself hoarse. I even follow her for a while, begging her to safety-but she just looks over her shoulder and reassuringly smiles back. GoÂ Left? Go Right? Green light. Time to go my own way.