She ran past, princess dress flying, to announce that “this is going to be the best tomorrow ever.”
I exhaled breath I didn’t realize I had been holding.
My faith in Tomorrow has been shattered, the pieces left for me to place back together, but my daughter’s is holding strong.
Tomorrow is as certain for her as it was for me just days ago.
Since news of the Connecticut shooting I have walked on eggshells and swallowed tears with the rest of the country.
I have wished I was back home the minute I pulled out of my driveway, I have doubled checked locked doors and searched for milk in the refrigerator that I had put on the counter two seconds before.
My husband and I have left news shows for after the kids are in bed, allowed one more cupcake and two more bedtime stories and doled out hugs and I love you’s until the little ones wiped them off and the teenager rolled her eyes.
My oldest can’t wait to wear her new coat to school, my son is excited to bring snack, my daughter is planning the Barbie concert of the century and we are holding our breaths.
Concentrating on the small picture is all the we can manage because the bigger one is too much.
I’m worried about watching the bus pull away and the last wave at preschool drop off and acutely aware of the parents out there with no bus to watch and wounds so fresh they are numb.
As my daughter gives me my ticket for tomorrow, I realize how important her instructions for holding it tight truly are.
I hang onto her promise, making sure not to fold it or leave it unclaimed, and watch her practice for the hundredth time,
hoping her faith in Tomorrow is as contagious as her five year-old giggle.
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