by Tanu Wakefield

Some days I don’t want to host little children in my house. Feed them my food. Tell them my rules. I want to fling the doors open and say “Go play!” There. See their little bodies line up to climb aboard a flying carpet of green. It should fit at least ten and hover above all neighborhood danger. But let it touch down once in awhile. Let them disembark. May they uncover a mystery I am not privy to like a creek behind the last house on a red dirt road. May they score flower-shaped cookies covered in sweet-white icing from Mrs. Bergman. May Laura Hern’s twirling baton whirl in their ears. Sand burrs on bare feet. The blood of mosquito bites. And when they scramble up the magnolia tree into unending sunlight, may it blind them with such glory.