Within this small creature somewhere is an Old Mexico. It’s a delicate quality she sadly will lose to time. Much too soon, brown legs churning, she will dash into and be swallowed by the crowd. So, study her while you can. She could come from no other place.

The sun has yet to warm more than the rooftops. The three of us walk briskly along the narrow sidewalk, I, behind the man and his daughter. She is, maybe, seven years old. She adheres to the dress code: white socks folded below the knee, pleated skirt in school colors, scrubbed face. Her hair is elaborately braided. Holding her father's hand, she glances up at him every few yards. He's a stoic, looking straight ahead.

The three of us walk in time to the throb of drums from the belly of the school. The bugles are passionate, if uneven.

He wears a conservative sport coat, slacks; a businessman, maybe, or a political functionary. Her book bag, a poisonously bright pink, is strapped to his back. The two of them walk hand in hand. He does not look at her. Still, she walks proudly, hoping to catch his glance or, failing that, the glance of others.

Across from the school the street is choked with mothers and children spilling out of taxis and private cars. Bugles war with car horns.

It’s hard not to notice that Tweedy Bird, the cartoon character, is stenciled on the book bag he’s carrying for her. The bird has been bulked up some and has pried open the bars of her cage for escape. The printing below is in English. “Girls,” it says, “have all the power.”

They cross the road to the school. In front of it he peels off the bag and hands it to her. She grabs hold of a strap and kisses the cheek he stoops to present. She is off before he gets upright, swallowed in the crowd, brown legs in a high gallop. Already she's with friends.

He stands watching after her. He’s reluctant to leave, even now when she’s inside and out of sight. The crowd of kids and parents stream around him. Sometimes he’s jostled. Still he waits, looking toward the entrance, as though she would come back.

At last he turns, slowly, crosses the street toward me. He could be a merchant, a college professor, a salesman. He could be anybody. If it weren’t for his sad-stricken face, he could be anybody at all.