We Will Run And Scream

We will run and scream,

You will dance with me,

We'll fulfill our dreams, and we'll be free.

We will be who we are,

And we'll heal our scars,

Sadness will be far away.

When I tell them we're heading to town for haircuts and a visit to the library, they dress with so much care. Beautiful cotton dresses sewn by my mom, little sweaters, leggings, their favourite socks, sparkly shoes. They traipse about town and charm the grocery store cashier with their beauty and light, their freckles, new haircuts, and high-pitched voices.

But when we get home, they ask, "Can we take off our shoes?" "Can we take off our dresses?" "Can we step in the puddles?" "Can we rub mud all over our bodies?"

I say yes to all of the above, and they holler like wild things, revel in the squish between their toes, marvel at the texture of mud on their skin, and cannonball into water that is six inches deep. Never mind the dead frog that floats nearby; they don't care. 

Afterwards, they stampeded up the stairs into the warm bath I'd run for them, dirtying the water beyond belief, splashing and giggling and getting along to my astonishment. They picked out new dresses and came down the stairs, civilized once more.

But I know them for who they truly are: warrior women in training.