Every time I step outside and see violets I cry.
My tears aren't always visible, but they're there.
They're there because I remember too many spring and summer days to count;
days where we would spend 4-year-old hours on hours
which I'm sure were only minutes to an adult,
but to a 4-year-old they were the world,
picking violets on the hill beside that house.
And that leads me to think about orange tic-tacs and Muppet Babies puzzles and how much I would give to go back and live just one day and hear you talk about that letter you wrote to the president and how maybe he might take the time to respond to you because you had written down the easy solution to whichever national problem was on the forefront.
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