It was a three year-old’s eyes through which I first saw you. I noticed myself as we two looked back. Why was I, I’d wondered, the only one asking why. Then I saw you, dancing with the what, not caring for the why. You were, weren’t you. You, seeing me struggle with what words, spoke to me the only way you could. Silently. I’ve grown old and ill from asking why, I know. They say we can be healed, that the truth sets us free. What truth can you tell to a three year-old child that she already doesn’t see.