I probably lied to her
when she asked about the future of her world—
what else can you do
when a young child pictures fields of fire,
fueled by the fossils we burn,
hands clutching rifles tighter than reason,
the quiet neglect of those left
shivering on street corners?
I see the same—
though I wish I didn’t.
So instead, I whispered of hope—
hope in her generation,
better than ours,
believing they can mend
the mess we leave behind.
A parent never wants to see fear
reflected in their child’s eyes—
or worse, the slow dimming of belief
that things will get better.
What I don’t see—
not yet at least—
is disappointment.
But it will come,
with age and understanding,
with eyes that once gazed hopefully at the future,
now looking back to me for answers—
because I am the goddamn adult here,
and I should know how to fix everything.