I can still remember the day my daughter, Eve, promised to take me to Paris.
I was sitting at the kitchen counter, and she was telling me of her dreams. It's something she's always done because, from the time she could talk, Eve has been a dreamer, and I have been her kindred spirit.
Eve's dreams are painstakingly specific: a pink Infiniti convertible; male and female shih tzus; shopping sprees funded by her job as a lawyer; a corner office with a view.
However, this dream of Paris is different from the rest. It's a dream she wants us to experience together. In my mind's eye, I can see it. My daughter and I strolling the Champs Elysees, taking selfies on the banks of the Seine and staring up at the Eiffel Tower.
Not only can I imagine it. I know it's within our reach because, unlike those whose dreams swirl together and come apart like wisps of smoke, Eve's wishes have always been attainable. Perhaps it's because I've seen her determination displayed in everything from the forcefulness of her voice, to the sheer strength of her will.
For just a moment, though, in the wake of the horrific attacks that rocked Paris this weekend, I doubted we'd ever go there. That is, until I looked at my daughter, and saw that nothing had changed.
Perhaps, at just 14, it was difficult for Eve to grasp the terror of coordinated attacks carried out by three teams of men at six Paris locations. Maybe she couldn't imagine people bursting into a concert hall, the Stade de France and at least two restaurants with rifles and other weapons.
Maybe she felt far removed from the extremist group ISIS, which issued a statement claiming that eight of its militants had carried out the attacks across the city.
I'm still having trouble understanding it all myself. How could someone carry out attacks that kill at least 129 innocent civilians and wound 352?
I don't pretend to know the answer, but I know this is not the end.
France has launched airstrikes against ISIS positions in the Middle East. The United States has pledged to back France and its allies in the fight.
I know this will be a protracted struggle. I also know that as a father, I still want my daughter to dream. And if she is to dream of Paris, I want her to dream of the one that existed before the bullets and bombs.
I want her to dream of the Paris whose art hangs in the Louvre, daring us to marvel at its beauty. I want her to dream of the Paris where the Eiffel Tower reaches toward the sky. I want her to dream of the Paris where old men argue over red wine at sidewalk cafes, not the Paris where young men spill red blood with AK-47s.
I want Eve to dream of the Paris that created the imagery of the Impressionists, that embraced the scattered notes of black jazz and that gave us the ecstasy of gourmet foods.
We'll go to that Paris one day, just Eve and me. Until we do, I know Eve will continue to take her French lessons at school, peek at the Paris brochure she created in sixth grade and plan for the places we'll visit when we get to the City of Lights.
In the meantime, I'll rest in the knowledge that Eve is not one to sit idly by and wait for a miracle. She's always been one to create her own miracles, to reach for her own destiny and give shape to her own dreams.
If I know Eve, we'll still fly to Paris together one day, because like me, she's a dreamer, and as much as we dream of visiting a Paris that is beautiful, we also dream of seeing a Paris that is at peace.