The heart of my seven-year-old is a simple, complicated thing.
She loves pink and unicorns and twirling in circles and playing detective and dogs.
She’s afraid of the dark, though. And tornadoes. She worries about accidentally walking through a spider web.
She wants to be a grown up and have an iPhone and say ‘teenager words’ and walk all the way to the park by herself.
She doesn’t want to grow up, actually. She is afraid she won’t live here with us anymore and that things will change and be harder and she’ll have to make her own breakfast.
The heart of a seven-year-old loves knows that family comes first and friends are everything and s’mores give life.
The heart of a seven-year-old knows that people and dogs grow old and then older and, eventually, die.
Her invincible, warrior heart gives out love and warmth into the world indiscriminately, believing that all her affections are both wanted and deserved.
She receives even minor rejections and disappointment with an utter devastation that pierces her tiny, fragile heart.
The heart of my seven-year-old is a simple, complicated thing.
The Traveling Circus 