My daughter works with children.
Like all children, sometimes they smile and sometimes they don’t.
Yet they’re not like all children.
My daughter works with children.
Bruised children. Sad children. Scared children. Lonely children. Battered children. Lovely children.
Children who have had things done to them that never should have been done.
Children who have seen things they never should have seen.
My daughter listens to them tell their stories.
Sometimes their stories cannot be told because they have no words.
I wonder what will happen to them.
What if their stories were about what happened at school that day; what books they are reading; what their favorite video game is; how much they like running around the park; why they don’t like broccoli; what music they love to dance to.
My daughter tries to take them to a safe place, understanding it is not an easy journey.
Some of these children will never have bedtime stories.
Some will never see their mothers or fathers again.
All the lovely children, where do they all come from.
All the lonely children, where do they all belong.
Children of big cities.
Children of small towns.
These are our American children.
Children of small apocalypses.