Every day she walks to school. She crosses a bridge to get over the pond by her house. Half way across she stops, and drops a stick into the water. Then she turns around and looks over the other side of the bridge, waiting to see her stick floating away.
Sometimes I wonder what she is doing. Sometimes I tell myself I should go outside to ask her. But most days I stay in my room, gazing out my window and feeling sorry for her.
She looks tired. I can't imagine she gets much sleep. Her parents are up late into the night, yelling at one another. You could hear them from miles away. The neighbors talk about her, they say that someone should take her away from her parents and put her into a loving home. But no one has.
I've never seen her smile or heard her laugh. She doesn't play with other children and she has never had a birthday party. None of the things that so often grace a child's life are present in hers. I wonder how she does it. How she gets up in the morning, day after day, knowing that she'll be facing the same things she went through the day before. The same things she has gone through for as long as she can remember.
It must be hard.
But I guess that's how life is.
The work of a girl-woman whose sole talents are writing and being lazy.
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