The girl enjoyed stories, says the cluttered bookshelves 
tacked on her bedroom walls; 
Very playful too, says the scars  
upon her knees and elbows; 
Painting was a hobby, says the paint-stained smock 
lounging on the floor; 
Along with music too, the sheets of music 
neatly piled on a piano stand; 
She was very clumsy, says the half-broken knee-pads and helmets 
in her family’s garage resting softly. 
 
Was she okay? says the empty tissue box 
with its content covering the floors, looking like popcorn; 
Was her heart broken? says the broken pencils 
thrown about the carpeted floor; 
Perhaps she was sick? says the messy sheets,  
cast on her bedroom floor like icing spread on a cake. 
 
Why, she was perfectly fine, says the toothpaste, recently used 
upon the bathroom shelf; 
She was a bright and joyful child, says the fresh paint 
on a smooth canvas; 
So much so, she thought people could fly, says the swing set 
Frequently used for the past decade, perched in the yard; 
Her family believed in her, says the photographs of the fair-haired family, 
Posted in a scrapbook; 
Why, she was perfectly fine, they all say.