He sat there on the stoop Head hung so low His forehead touched his knees. Hands, fisted, scraped The filthy steps And his tears flowed unbidden, Soaking the black trousers; His funeral attire bleak, sodden. No one approached. No one had words. They all grieved. What hope was there When even the best, most loved, Could be taken quickly, violently? He saw the tiny shoes; The frilly socks on the skinny legs. He wanted to reach out; He wanted to comfort this one But he knew he would only see the other On her face, in her eyes, her hair. He felt a tear drop on his head And he shuddered from the pain. “Daddy? Are you in there? Can you hear me? It’s just me. Annie. Daddy? I need the bathroom.” The mundane moments of life, The need of his little child, With her tears and her silly socks Broke through to his darkened mind. “Come, Annie”. He reached out. Her small hand slipped into his, And he stood, his head so heavy. It was her needs, her dependence, And suddenly the future spoke. The pain, the grief were there But hope oozed through the cracks In his heart, unbidden but relentless. He squeezed her soft child hand Then leaned in and kissed her knuckles, The chubby pads stll babyish. When he spoke his voice was ragged. “Let’s go, Annie. We’ll find it together.”