The girl on the sidewalk.

She walks home on her own. A small frame, long curly black hair. No more than 7 or 8.

I meet her in the same place each day as I am driving to pick up the boys and she is crossing at a stoplight.

The snow had piled up and she crossed, on this day, over to the shoveled sidewalk surrounded by the foot and a half of snow on either side.

I sit at the light and watch her little self navigate the icy patches.

Then she stops. Stands still. Backs up slowly.

Her head turns towards the snow on her left side and she takes a giant step into the snow. She has found someone's tracks making a path through the deep snow.

With such concentration she pulls each boot up and into the next footprint. About 6 or 8 steps and she is back on the sidewalk.

She looks up and her face holds pure happiness and thrill. I smile. Then laugh. I catch tears in the back of my eyes.

She catches my eye. Smiles. And continues down the sidewalk in her own rhythm.

I want that.

I want that.

I want that.

With grace and careful footsteps.

I want that.