At six, watching a grainy black and white
I puzzled at the horse drawn casket.
Why didn't they use a hearse?
At six, the throngs lining the street
made me anxious and sad
with their pinched, somber faces.
At six, I mourned for her and her brother.
She was just a little girl like me,
but now she had no daddy.
At six, I asked my mother
How did her daddy die?
A bad man killed him, she said.
At six, I lay in bed at night
and fretted who would rock her now,
and who would lead her pony?
At six, my heart ached for her.
For how could life be so cruel to someone
with a beautiful name like Caroline?
Rose S. Williams
Dec. 7, 2007