In which I discover the magical cure for skinned knees {Just Write}

She runs ahead of me, hair waving like ribbons on a kite, flip-flops smacking the sidewalk, every limb moving in her watch-out-world way. I open my mouth to tell her again not to run in her flips, and oh for the love, girl, could you please be careful?

But I close my mouth, don't say a word. I could go hoarse calling her to caution while she hears only the wild in her heart. I'm trying to let go, to let her make mistakes while the stakes are still low. Not a second later, she is face down, flat on the ground.

I make that sound--the panicky breath-in-oh-no-poor-baby-are-you-okay sound--the one you're not supposed to make because it only makes things worse. I scoop her into my arms like an infant, cradling her shoulder and head with one arm while her skinned knees and shins dangle over my other arm.  She sees the blood and heightens her cry.

We have a short ride home, eight minutes and counting before we get the desperately needed princess bandaid. So I ask her, "Is there a song I could play for you, a song that would help you feel better?"

"The Me and Daddy song," she says in between gulps.

I find "Father and Daughter", turn it up. She still believes it's her own daddy singing--just to her--and I haven't the heart to tell her otherwise. One day she'll discover her father doesn't sing like Paul Simon, but not today.

The tears are gone before the chorus, but as soon as the song fades, I hear her welling up again.

"It still hurts, even worser!" she whimpers.

"You must need another song," I say. "What would you like to pick next?"

She doesn't hesitate. "I Was Made For Sunny Days."


I see in my rearview mirror her face still wet with tears, smiling wide. By the time we reach the driveway, we are singing.