Brian Doyle: Yes

 Yes

 

I was on a gleaming elevator in a vast hotel in a huge city

The other day when a man got on with his daughter about

Age four. I asked her what floor they wanted and she said

Seven million. I reached up as high as I could and pressed

An imaginary button and she laughed and some little door

Opened in all three of us, a wordless yes, and we started to

Talk about the elevator's voice, which sounded like a lady

From Ireland or Scotland, and how the buttons were twice

As big as any giant's fingers, and how older gents like me

Remembered buildings without thirteenth floors, isn't that

Funny, that an ancient superstition would still be reflected

In modern buildings? By now the girl was dancing and her

Dad and I were grinning at her ebullience but then the lady

Spoke their floor and the door opened. The girl leapt away,

but the dad hesitated a second and said quietly hey thanks,

And I knew just what he meant―something like thanks for 

Being four years old for a minute. We have those moments

When we are all the same age, from the same country, with

The same language on our teeth, and it never lasts too long,

But it always feels weirdly familiar, doesn't it? Like we are

Home again for a moment, with family we hardly get to see.

― Brian Doyle