She was born into laughter.

Not the hysterical laughter of fools, drunk on power, or position or ignorance.

But laughter...deep and free, laughter borne of hope in spite of pain and loss, defiant of sorrow or misery, knowledgeable of the premise that there would be no smiles tomorrow; that tears would still come, and so happiness....this mirth, this joy was even more precious, more delightful, more poignant.

And her innocence was even more precious because of it.

Because soon, this too, this fleeting joy would be bruised - like ripened fruit- perfect in its splendor of its potential. Springing strong and rosy from its roots which tended and nurtured it.

It was its promise...and yet...It fell..and landed, damaged, dented,hoping that its fall was of some worth..That it would be discovered and enjoyed