On the Monday after Mother’s Day,
after another mass shooting,
I pick up my daughter from school
and on the ride home while she munches
on veggie chips and looks out the window,
she tells me a modern day fairytale: “Luke killed a frog today
at the playground
during recess
the frog was small
not a baby frog
a teenage frog
because he had a medium-sized body
not a small body
a green & blue medium-sized spotted body
Luke stepped on it & stepped on it
until there was blood
& the teacher had to call the frog ambulance
& Luke was put on the naughty list
& I was the only one who yelled stop!
Stop! Don’t kill it!
but Luke wouldn’t listen
& the others joined in on the stomping
& I yelled stop!
but no one would listen
& they stomped & stomped
& killed the frog
& and it bled red
out of its eyes
out of its head
& it made me sad
& can we buy the frog flowers
because when someone dies they should get flowers
& Mami, what if that frog was supposed to be a prince
but now he’s dead
& now we’ll never know”
(daily ex., morning dog walk 1.6 miles, pm slow jog 3.5 miles) | 
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