Being at home in a crowd

She was slower than the others
Pushing her a little cart in the streams of endless people 
With their cones of gelato and running shoes

I heard the old lady humming as I shouldered by 
Her sing-song tune barely rising above the hundreds of footfalls at once stepping on the slabs of stone 
A bridge she has walked hundreds of times

Just then, I saw the rippling water 
And finally, the girl clutching her mother and whispering into her shoulder with tears in her eyes
I remembered then that this is Venice