There once was a girl

Who lived in a house similar to mine

With a rusted fence and concrete steps that led up to a double wide front door.

Both houses had the same plot of craggy grass and a mangled tree sat center in the middle.

But though this other house, the one that was not mine, appeared to be the same, you open the door and see a whole new world, different from my own.

So one Monday, I sat her down, the wooden chair beside my desk creaking, and asked her about the bruises on her face.

"Why miss", she said "I tripped down our concrete steps".

And I believed her. Because just the other day, my son fell and ripped his lip and busted his jaw.

And so she resumed her classes.

Then came Tuesday.

Again she ended up in my office, where I asked why she had two scraped knees and a permanent frown.

"Why miss", she said "my soccer game was mighty hard and rough".

And then her frown turned upside down and so I believed her, for my daughter had been sent sprawling at her last soccer match.

And so she went home.

On a bright, chilly Wednesday, I found her trotting into my office yet again. And so I asked why her lips were red and swollen with cuts along the edges.

"Why miss", she said "I just got braces".

And so I believed her, for when I was a child of her age, my braces scarred me as well.

And so she resumed her classes.

Then Thursday came.

I had already grown accustomed to the jangle above the door as she hobbled in. So I sat her down, the chair moaning, and asked why her hands were cut and bleeding.

"Why miss", she said "we did arts and crafts in class".

And so I believed her, for my husband lacked any skills with scissors also.

And so she left my office for the last time.

And Friday came and passed and so did the ever present weekend. And I sled with my children in the great park across our street and ate with my husband, all the while expecting to see the girl.

But Monday came.

The door never jingled.

The chair didn't groan.

Nothing happened for weeks until I got the invitation to her funeral.

There once was a girl

Who lived in a house similar to mine

With a rusted fence and concrete steps that led up to a double wide front door.

Both houses had the same plot of craggy grass and a mangled tree sat center in the middle.

But though this other house, the one that was not mine, appeared to be the same, a war was being waged on the inside.
And like every war.
There has to be some casualties.