Between Bruises & Blooms

The world has a way
of counting our scars.

It measures the sleepless nights,
the court dates,
the unanswered prayers,
the cracks in the walls
where hope once hung its coat.

But children…

Children count different things.

They count butterflies.
The number of times the wind
lifts their hair.
The songs hidden inside ordinary afternoons.

Today,
my daughter found music
where I only heard another day.

She twirled
without asking permission.
She laughed
without wondering who was watching.
She danced
as though joy belonged to everyone.

And maybe it does.

Maybe healing
isn’t always stitched together
by grand victories.

Maybe it arrives quietly,
wearing tiny feet
and a crooked grin,
asking us to remember
how to sway before we remember
how to stand.

So I watched.

Not because she needed an audience,
but because I needed a reminder.

The world will hand her enough reasons
to become careful.

For now,
I pray she keeps dancing
before fear learns her name.

May she always find music
where others hear only noise.

May she bloom,
not because life was gentle,
but because she chose
to dance anyway.