There was a young girl, at that age when puberty hasn’t quite reached her, and everything hasn’t changed. I watched her through the window of the subway train as she buried her face into her fathers chest and hid from the cold. He was talking with another man his age and gesturing with his arms. After a moment she turned around, reached up, and put her hands around his forearms. Not to interfere. Just, to be let them hang, to touch him as he continued talking and gesturing.

I saw a beautiful thing today… a little girl, who loved her father.