The Little Girl down the Street
Sometime in the mid 60's there was a family who lived halfway down my block. They had two children, a boy and a girl. The little girl had black shiny hair cropped just below her ears and the biggest and most beautiful dark eyes I had ever seen. Even then as a child I knew this little girl was remarkable. Often times she would cling to me and I would play with her whether it was ball, tag, swinging her around or picking flowers. She was very quiet and to be honest I don't ever recall her saying a word. She would just smile, look up at me and give me a great big hug.
One summer I had not seen her for one whole week and wondered where she could be. I heard later that she had taken ill and was in bed with a fever and sore throat. I remember dreaming about her and two other little girls playing together and they all had the same name. In my dream which turned into a nightmare, one of the three little girls fell into a deep and dark well. I desperately called down into the well hoping to get an answer, but nothing came back. I soon realized that the two little girls with the same name had blond hair and were standing beside me looking into the well. It was then that I realized with horror that the little girl from down the street was the one down there.
Several days later an older girl who lived on the same street told me that the little girl had not recovered from her fever and had died of "throat rot". I was shocked, not fully understanding the impact, and I ran to tell my mother. She gave me a few dollars and told me to go to the flower store and buy some flowers to take to the mom. My girlfriend and I asked the lady in the shop what is traditional to give when someone has died. She offered up three large, white mums.
I asked my girlfriend to go with me and we both awkwardly walked up the front steps of the house and knocked on the door. The mom answered the door and when she saw us she put her hand to her mouth and began to cry. Another woman rushed up quickly, smiled and invited us in to sit. There were single kitchen chairs arranged along the perimeter of the living room with women, dressed in black clothing, sitting and speaking in a language I did not understand but it appeared they were nodding approvingly. The mom, who spoke very little English, offered us cookies and juice to drink. We didn't know what to say and I cannot remember how we made our leave. To this day I still remember sitting on that chair gripping those white mums. I still remember the little girl's face as if it was yesterday. That summer afternoon was my first introduction to loss and grief. The family soon moved away, the little girl became a memory and my childhood continued.