What My Daughter Doesn't Know About Friction
At three years old,
she slides down the playground chute
again and again—
screaming joy like a law of nature,
not knowing her thrill
relies on two surfaces
refusing to agree.
I don't tell her
that without friction
she'd fall through her chair,
pass through the carpet,
drop through the crust,
until even the Earth's center
ran out of grip.
I just watch her walk—
tiny soles pressing the ground,
each step a quiet argument
between rubber and concrete:
stay.
then go.
Last night she asked
why ice is slippery.
I wanted to say something
about water letting go
of its own shape—
but she was already gone,
hunting for socks,
her question dissolving
faster than I could catch it.
At the store,
she pushes the cart
(I guide it, barely)
and gasps at how
a week's worth of groceries
glides like nothing.
"It's magic," she says.
And maybe it is—
all those invisible wheels
and tiny metal balls
conspiring to make
heavy things light.
Tonight, she kicks off her blanket.
"Too scratchy," she complains,
and I smooth it down,
thinking how that roughness
against her skin
whispers:
you are here.
you are real.
you exist.
But what I don't say is this:
someday friction will burn her.
Rope through palms,
knees on asphalt,
the slow wear
of things that stay
too close
too long.
What I don't say is
that the same force
keeping her safe in bed
is teaching her
that everything
she'll ever love
will eventually
wear away.
Instead, I watch her sleep,
my hand resting
in her hair,
both of us held
by invisible forces
neither of us
fully understands.
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