by Andrea Jones
A small girl has been watching a stranger.
|There is a woman,
She walks the streets,
I see her everyday.
She smiled at me once,
It made me warm inside,
I smiled back at her.
But sometimes she will walk with,
A sad look on her face,
I wonder why she is sad.
She always dresses in the same clothes,
And her clothes are never, ever dirty,
My clothes get dirty very, very easily.
I pointed her out to friends and family,
They couldn't see and looked at one another,
So I pretended not to see her again.
One night, when they left me with Aunt Margaret,
Auntie fell asleep so I looked for my friend,
I knew she was real, I was just checking.
I walked down the road in the dark, looking around,
I turned a corner, and she was standing there, smiling,
I walked up to where she was and smiled back.
She spoke very softly to me; "Why are you here, Alice?"
"I've been looking for you," I pointed at her, "Found you"
She tilted her head; the sad look again on her face.
The woman held out her hand, I took it, we began walking,
"Alice, you are six years old, yes?" I replied; "I'm almost seven",
"I have to tell you, Alice, things that you may not like".
She spoke of death, of things I did not understand until then,
By the time she had finished, we had walked back to my house,
The sun was rising and it felt like a new start to my life.
The woman explained that she was sent to look after me for a while,
I had a terminal disease; she helped me to understand what that really meant,
She said I had died in my sleep, and that I should not worry.
"Are you ready, Alice?"
I took her hand, smiled at her and said;