Rebecca, Child Pilot

At the age of four Rebecca believes
my '97 Toyota can fly to the North Pole
on five-dollars-worth of gas,
where a lion on vacation from Africa
crosses the iced runway
and romps with polar bears.

I smile, aware of the real world,
its violence, demands, and misunderstandings.
In my granddaughter's imagination
pilot-parent-child roles interchange
at whim. Night and day
reverse in a single breath.

To Rebecca, a person's skin color
fits like a comfy shirt.
Black, White, or Tan doesn't matter
as long as it conforms to a hug.
Old or young, rich or poor, fat or thin,
our little girl sees magic in anyone.

As the two of us walk over tundra,
dry pavement if we weren't pretending,
the casual observer could think
the older leads the younger across traffic.
Instead the wiser one directs her elder
into simplicity.