I was reading a book. And he sat on my lap and looked at the pictures and smiled.
First a fireman, a shout of delight. Just like Daddy.

Page turn. The fire truck, red and lovely, his face lighting up like the sun. He had ridden in one, he told me.
Sat in Daddy’s chair. Daddy helped people. He kept them safe.

Page turn.
Bad man. Bad, bad man.
No, I said.
Police man.
He shoots, he said to me. He shoots people.
No, I said, panic rising, like an icy hand wrapping around my throat. He is nice. Nice man.
He was staring at the face of the monster under his bed. He shoots. He shoots.

Two years old. He is two years old. He is only just learning how to walk and run and he is already so, so afraid.
Afraid of something he should not fear. Afraid of a person, someone exactly like him. Someone with the same skeleton
under his skin.

His skin.
His skin matters. What color his cells are made of will make the difference for his entire life. In my life. In the lives of others.

Page turn.
The doctor. The teacher. The crossing guard. Page turn, page turn, page turn.
If only I could use the right words, to make an inspiring story out of nothing, something he will remember
until the end of his days. Something that makes the tension less in our world of tight strings.
Some way to educate, to teach. A child.

How could I stand a chance against the fear of men who carry guns and the colors of our freedom?
How, when I share the same feeling? How do I do anything? What do I say?

Two years old. Only a brief taste of life. Only one brief chapter.

Page turn.

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Chrysa Keenon is a student in the acclaimed Professional Writing program at Taylor University. Her works appeared in The Echo, The Flying Island, and The Fictional Cafe. http://chrysakeenon.wordpress.com