I skipped with my daughter the other day.

Carelessly.

We chased the air with each leap,

bouncing amazingly free.

She smiled and laughed, asking if dad would be

watching us from afar.

He would.

Kettle corn puffed just under our nostrils,

leaves crushed under our feet.

The sun was setting, making the sky above us

split blue and orange.

Our cheeks were cold.

So were our finger tips.

And her little hand rested right between my

palm and my thumb.

She swung my arm forwards and backwards.

Her laughter was comforting.

She released her joy generously without regret.

I’ve missed that.

The thought pierced me right in the memory

of the last time

I gave out my joy so freely.

I’ve been choosy with it in age.

Stingy, and with conditions.

So when I fixed my eyes onto her face,

giddy and guilty of no faults,

I remembered a girl who once lived

happily

lovingly

carelessly and free.