She was such a pretty child, as pretty as could be. The blondest hair and bluest eyes, this little girl of three. She lived next door, and I would often see her play outside, Putting all her dollies in a wagon, for a ride.
I often thought, how beautiful she would be when she's grown. She was just the cutest thing, as she played there all alone. I only knew her parents, from a passing wave or 'Hi.' They did not want to socialize, each time that I would try.
I sometimes heard them arguing, when I was in my yard. I know the problems people have, can sometimes make life hard. I thought they were just loners, because they kept to themselves. They might think I am nosy, if I try to offer help.
They never bother anyone, the other neighbors say, And the little girl can only go out back to play. You only see them come and go, they never stay outside. You wonder when they act like that, have they something to hide?
One day I heard them arguing, much louder than before. As I looked out, the little girl was standing by her door. Her little face was bruised, and tears were running down her cheek. I wanted to go over there, but I was scared and meek.
Finally, when the screaming stopped and everything was calm, I saw the little girl was being held close to her Mom. Her Mother rocked her back and forth, and she was crying too. Just standing in the back yard, there was nothing I could do.
There was nothing I could do, would be of any use. This Mother and this little girl, were suffering abuse. She had better call someone, and get this thing resolved, But, it is not my business, and I cannot get involved.
As I spoke with neighbors, about what went on next door, They all agreed, that is was sad, it's something we abhor. It's something we must overlook, we cannot interfere. But, now we sing a different tune, as we are gathered here.
The neighborhood feels guilty, for we looked the other way, Are we all responsible for being here today? We feel the anger and the shame, because we all stood by, Knowing now, we could have helped, but didn't even try.
And, now this little three year old, so beautiful to me, Surrounded by her dollies, just the way she loved to be, Is in a little casket, with her body limp and frail. Her Mom is in intensive care, her Dad is now in jail.
The funeral home is quiet, because we all realize, The reason you must get involved, is right before our eyes. Abuse, in any form, is something we must all resent. And, fight with every tool we have, to save our innocent. Written by - James A. Kisner - aka PoppyK1@aol.com
Disclaimer: Poppy's poems are copyrighted by Fleeting Moments Publishing and may not be reproduced without permission.
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Artwork by Sandra Kuck