by Martin Christmas

She comes a cropper,
sprawling on the carpet
in full flight,

Sudden tears,
but not those of a baby.
More frustrated,
sudden shock.

Gently I squat down
beside her.
My hand touches the small
of her back,
reassuring her.

She looks at me,
small tears in her small
All of seven years,
but not a big child.

Then she vents her rage,
by explaining this
as one more fall
in several today.
Not her best day,
for sure.

She tells the tale
of coming a heavy one
at school,
in the morning.
And then childlike,
acts out
the fall.
Lurching and landing,
full body down.

The tears,
now almost dried.
The present fall,
almost forgotten
through acting out the
past trauma.
She gets up and says,
‘Not one of my best days’,
running off
to join her friends.

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