A gleaming seven year-old
squeals with delight
as she rushes to a table
where her parents and
three other children (siblings?)
have been sitting in a fast food
restaurant.
Her father shushes her
with a stern look,
but it quickly fades.
They have shared a delicious
looking
ice cream cake and animated
conversation.
When her cake plate has been
picked clean,
she reaches under the table
and picks up a small pink hula
hoop.
Joy erupts from her eyes
like sparklers on a black summer
night.
I want to step over to her
and say, "Hold tightly to
the reality
of this dream, little angel.
It contains the significance
of the whole universe."
But we do not even
speak the same language
in more ways than one.
She knows Spanish;
I, only English.
She still speaks Innocence,
even if it has been tainted
by whatever has already
happened to her in these brief
years.
Of course, I can remember
some of that dialect,
but not nearly enough.
¿Y tú?
© 2013 Todd Jenkins
No comments:
Post a Comment