Small Hands, Big Ask

Her small hand found my sleeve that day,

a sudden weight, to make me stay.

A skinned knee cried, a wobbly lip,

her seven years about to slip.

Mom called, "I'm here!" but she shook her head,

"No, you," she'd begged, the words unsaid.

The Band-Aid box, a tiny quest,

my fingers fumbled, put to test.

That trust, a jolt, a silent plea,

the first time someone leaned on me.

Her face, all smeared with dirt and tear,

a silent promise, held so dear.

And suddenly, I knew no fear.