I would feed you joy on a silver spoon.
I would make you paper kites and breakfast past midnight and origami fish to hang from your ceiling.
I would heal the parts of you that shattered when you were too young to know how to reassemble the pieces.
I would do anything to watch the corners of your mouth lift and stay. Color flooding skin, painting it.
There’s too much tragedy in this world, you told me once. No need for further explanation. I could see it in your eyes. You captured your past in one sentence.
I remember wanting to clothe you in light. To wrap your fingers around each of my individual heartbeats, to have you feel them pulsing between your palms. I wanted to fill you with goodness. Sweet tea and blanket forts and firefly summers in the suburbs. A father’s hand and an open road and enough fight in you to find where it ends.
If I could, I would take you there.
And I’d watch you run, all the while thinking There’s too much wonder in this world, lungs filling up with it.