A Little Girl Fell

A girl of maybe four or five fell
on the bleachers, banged her head
but only slightly, frightened, though,
and crying out. Every mother in and
out of close proximity lurched
forward as a single unit, but her own
jumped up and crossed  the six or seven
feet to rescue her, pulling her  to safety,
stroking back and hair and comforting
with gentle, cooing words. The father,
asshole that he was, apparently, moved
not an inch, could barely bother just
to turn his head, and from my seat above
them, I could see their lives unfolding
plainly, how his wife had rubbed
his shoulders right before the incident,
the way she doted on her family,
the husband quite content to let her
do it all. And one day, twelve or thirteen
years from now, perhaps he'll realize
his tardy efforts are too late to win
his daughter's heart, because deep down
she will remember what it felt like
falling, being scared and from the corner
of her eye, the sight of Daddy sitting
uselessly, forever out of reach.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014