French la Vie

Last night, under a starlit sky and the soft embrace of a cool June evening, our little town sang with joy. The fête de la musique—music drifting from every corner, laughter in the air-

Claire Sparkle, my three-year-old granddaughter, wore her favorite twirling dress. She danced like the world was made of light—barefoot by the end, a tiny blister couldn’t slow her down.
Nothing stops a dancer when the music lives inside them.

And in that moment, with her joy spilling out into the night, it felt like the darkness of the world stood behind me. Held at bay, if only for an evening.

But when the music ended and I walked home through quiet streets, I stepped back into the shadow.

The USA bombed Iranian uranium sites.

While children dance in the glow of hope, barefoot and fearless, somewhere else, the drums beat a different rhythm—a rhythm of fear, of power, of a cold calculation. The kind of dance that chooses destruction over dialogue.

There is always a partner in every dance. Tonight, America chose the shadow.

And yet, Claire Sparkle twirled. She reminded me: that children still dance, still sing, in the moment-

Even as the darkness leans in.