A cool autumn day,

recess and some go-gurt.

Childish giggling, amused by running.

Running and hollering a word at a touch,

A defining game.

It was a fall to remember. 

You didn’t see what you avoided,

just a rock, steadfast in dirt.

She could’ve seen it.

Didn’t see it.

Six-year-olds aren’t known for grace.

Simply said:

It was a fall to remember.

You were five and

she was six and

no one was at fault

you didn’t even see but

because some random kid said so:

it was your fault.

For years.

It was a fall to remember. 

Then, tears fell into the dirt,

giggling and hollers and running

exchanged for wails and shock.

And the four-word declaration,

four simple words that defined you.

It was your fault.

The last you’d see of her.

The last you’d hear of her.

Her fall

was one you’d remember.