What happens when my seven-year-old daughter is older?
Will this gun-headed, hate flag-waving America be little more than oblivion and dust?
Unemancipated dreams and auguries of awfulness?
Trojan horses stuffed with hoarse promises?
Over the sounds of traffic and cries of the suffering, I listen for the song of playing cards in bicycle spokes, the clickety-clack of childhood velocity speeding through streets of uninterrupted joy.
I don’t know what the future holds for my daughter.
But for now, we run and play outside.
When darkness calls, I do my best to remind my daughter of that inner light of fireflies around her heart.
RichRant 