When You’re Five

Little feet pedal as fast as they can up the road ahead of me.


I hold my breath, praying a car doesn’t come.

Keeping the urge to run after her and carry her the rest of the way to the house to myself.

We stop every few minutes to pick a flower, write in the dirt, or find a treasure.


She’s five now.


There are scrapes and scratches, marks and band-aids, tears and hugs.

Racing and running, bumps on the head, and lots of bruises.

But she’s always back up a few minutes later.

Because she’s five and five-year olds don’t have time to stop.



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One Response to When You’re Five
  1. Kimberly
    June 18, 2015 | 11:50 am

    She ain’t got time for that.
    Cutie patootie.

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