No, You can't have a doughnut

She wants me to give it to you

But I think—

part of childhood is learning how to yearn.

Learning there are things you want

and won’t get.

And as you keep collecting years,

learn a way how to.

It’s part of childhood.

Looking at the world with wide, blinking eyes,

needing and wanting everything—

because everything still makes your little heart beat faster,

and your almond eyes stretch wider.

It’s part of childhood.

Pressing your freckled face to glass storefronts

like it’s a movie screen,

desperately wanting to live in it's wonderland.

But no—

come on, Jamie, we’re going home.

No, you can’t have the glazed doughnut

with the zillion sprinkles,

partly because I can’t really afford one now,

and partly because

I know tonight

you’ll dream up a zillion ways

to buy as many doughnuts as you want

when you grow older.

So yes—

I pick you up,

screaming and kicking,

ignoring the scowl of the old lady muttering,

“Let him. He’s only a child.”