And She Will

    She sits upon a rocking horse and rides the plains. She straddles the laughing brook and giggles as she weaves back and forth on its stepping stones. She jumps the cracks and plays hopscotch down the street’s concrete squares. She hurls herself down the hill until her legs abandon themselves to gravity and are no longer her own. She closes her eyes and spins in circles with outstretched arms until up is down and right is left. She lays outstretched in the grass, her chin in her hands bouncing her head in rhythm with hopping birds until she sees a bunny and then, of course, one must get up and hop. She is a thoroughbred waiting for the explosion of energy, muscles, instinct and grace. Give her a blanket or a toy horse or the cardboard center from a roll of paper towels or just a single crayon and scrap of paper and the world erupts in hours of magic, imagination and play. There is no song unworthy of her voice, especially songs played by the orchestra in her head.
    Years have paved over her Siddhartha’s tree. She’s forgotten how to straddle, weave, jump and hop. She shaves the legs she would scratch, bruise and scrape running through the woods. Her arms lift high for the next rung in the ladder of life. She no longer grabs the branch of a tree. Her rocking horse is steel, plastic and metal and without grace and instinct. She has grown up. She no longer sings.
    A neon light’s reflection captures her eye. A wild flower’s scent tickles her nose. The sound of a child’s laughter gives her goose bumps. She knows. She wakes up. She sees a tree. If I have but one get out of jail free card in life, if there is but one favor to call due, I would go all in and cash them out if I could be the ant on the ground to hear her when she whispers, and she will, “I am. I can. I will. I believe. Now.”
    She sits upon a rocking horse and rides the plains. She straddles the laughing brook and giggles as she weaves back and forth on its stepping stones. She jumps the cracks and plays hopscotch down the street’s concrete squares. She hurls herself down the hill until her legs abandon themselves to gravity and are no longer her own. She closes her eyes and spins in circles with outstretched arms until up is down and right is left. She lays outstretched in the grass, her chin in her hands bouncing her head in rhythm with hopping birds until she sees a bunny and then, of course, one must get up and hop. She is a thoroughbred waiting for the explosion of energy, muscles, instinct and grace. Give her a blanket or a toy horse or the cardboard center from a roll of paper towels or just a single crayon and scrap of paper and the world erupts in hours of magic, imagination and play. There is no song unworthy of her voice, especially songs played by the orchestra in her head. She has grown in. She is the music she sings.