I held the door for someone passing through.
She turned and smiled, then hurried down the street.
A small exchange, already almost gone,
As ordinary as the sound of feet.
I watched her disappear beyond the square,
Then went about the errands of the day.
The sky was grey; the traffic thick with rain.
The world resumed its usual array.
That evening, at the crossing near the bridge,
A little girl stood waiting in the cold.
Her mother searched a bag for something lost;
The lights changed twice before the road was crossed.
I stepped towards them, though I cannot say
What moved me, or what made me hesitate.
The child looked up. Her hand was small and warm.
I held it while her mother found the gate.
She thanked me, and they vanished in the crowd.
I walked on, thinking little of the scene.
Yet something in the evening seemed to wait
Where once the passing traffic had been loud.
Next morning, when I opened up the door,
A neighbour stood outside, his face drawn tight.
His wife had died. He could not find the words.
I let him in. We sat without a light.
I cannot tell you what the silence did,
Or why he spoke at last, or why I stayed.
Perhaps the world is held by threads so fine
We feel them only when they start to fray.
I think again of those I passed unseen,
The hands I did not take, the doors I closed.
And wonder how much of the world we share
Is made of what we never thought we chose.
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