Being a child is beautiful.

Being a child is beautiful. The innocence of age is undeniable, after all, how many 4 year olds do you see dressed in black and stalking vulnerable people, how many 2 year olds wielding guns around schools, intent to harm and devastate. How many children hate at all? The truth is, children lack the capability to hate, the capability to fathom such evil thoughts.

Melissa was 7, eyes bright and dreaming, always. She could skip, run, jump. She dreamt of being a ballerina, sometimes sitting silently for hours, completely concentrating on the leaps she would make, the turns she’d elegantly perform. Melissa had blonde, long hair, often plaited, sometimes not. She was always so busy, ballet class Thursday, violin Tuesday, and of course, church Sunday. Through all this, she had a wholesome family. The typical one brother, one sister, two parents and a well trained puppy. She lived the American dream, the life many would die for, but she was 7, so she didn’t have to know this, didn’t have to appreciate what she had, this was normal.

Thousands of miles away sits a little girl, also 7. She is dreaming, too, but less so of the future, more so for the present. She is less bright eyed, lest hopeful, but she holds hope, somewhere. Her room is less large, less bright, less pink. Her walls are not solid, they are plastic and malleable, supressing beneath the wind and attempting flight. She would run, too, but not in a playground, not laughing. When she ran, it was for her life. She ran through fire and screams, through torture. She did not have the novelty of a scraped knee as her only reminder of what she had suffered. Her eyes were not bright, why are her eyes not bright, she too is 7? Why does she cry?

There is a girl in India, much younger but still. She is wrapped in a blanket, screaming and cold, pink even. She has been in this world little more then a day, yet she is alone, left in the dirt like trash. She cant fathom why, she has never seen kindness. Her eyes never had the chance to be bright, her mind never the chance to dream, but she is cold. Her mother cries, too alone. Her precious little baby some what alike. She feels her baby is dead, but she is wrong, she knows she is wrong. She will try again, and hope, dream, pray for a boy.

Melissa looks at the clouds, and dreams to be a ballerina.