february

February 4, 2012.

They won't let me forget.

On top of that high, dry hill, too sunny for the season, without a coat. Saturday.

Her body was pressed against the driveway of the next-door neighbor, near the car that had rolled over her. His car. With his children in it, who had all felt the blow as they were pushed over the tiny girl.  I wasn't meant to see that body, that tiny form.  Between the uniforms and pulsing machines that swarmed her, though, I saw it.

The bright white hair, splayed like a halo around her fair, colorless face.  Eyes, sealed shut, after seeing only four years' worth of bagged goldfish and plastic hair accessories.  That tiny mouth, that squabbled pop songs and tasted too much candy, firmly closed.

Her father's large hands stroking her, grazing the last of her warm skin.  And the other man, his large hands streaming violently through his own hair, quaking as he cried, alone but loud, "What have I done?"

The heart within her, crushed but steady, pumped blood like an infant drum.

Four days. Four days it pumped, a soft rhythm.

A small woman with fragile hands and blank eyes streamed her thin fingers along the cold skin of her daughter, praying that her whispers would strike the tiny soul of the girl who was about to stop pumping blood.

And she turned off the machine with a promise of being happy, soon.

And, in that moment, four years of life stopped; her heart slowed rhythmically, the orchestra closing with a soft hum.