Let’s make him fly, says Milo, about his foam board Santa hitched to tottering, prop-legged reindeer when we get out the Christmas decorations. And I believe him. I believe in him. I have to. Because more people were gunned down today. People who help people were gunned down today. So sweet five-year-old boy, I will help your dreams fly. And your toys, too. As long as they’re not camo-assault-patrol toys. Fucking Lego Chima Lions who get to be the noble guardians in armored tanks, making sure those sneaky ravens and reptiles behave themselves. A racist police state in bookish disguise. The same old story: brushstroke bad guys undermining good guys and good guys thinking they are morally invincible. I won’t play that game. I will help your blue-nosed reindeer fly, and in my less assured moments I will pretend I have angel wings, feathered and spreading behind me, so I can stand the pain.