Tue, September 15, 1998 - 1:18 a.m.

Today (tonight?) just around midnight, I found myself 
 at the Eberwhite 
 playground.

I found out that it's pointless to stand there
 in the semi-darkness calling your kid's name when she's
 been * in an automobile accident.

She won't answer.

She won't come.

She won't put down the ball, tell her buddies goodbye, 
 and run over the car.

She won't grumble and ask for 'five more minutes'.

She won't complain that it isn't fair that she has to 
 stop playing with her friends to go pick up her 
 pesky little sister.

She won't ask you to walk back into the school building
 with her to get her backpack or let her make a quick
 trip to the toilet. 

She won't jump up and throw her arms around your neck,
 wrap her legs around your waist and yell "daddy!"

She won't say "I know you're going to say no, but can
 we go play at Fumika's house as soon as we get home?"

She won't jump into the front seat and say "Dad, guess
 what we did today!" or "Dad, guess what Julia (or Marie
 or Calyn) and I did today" or even "Dad, what does it mean
 when you 'give someone the finger'?"

None of the above will happen.

You'll just stand there feeling just a little too cold,
 with the light from the building shining
 just a little too bright, 

 and you'll feel just a little too stupid and
 over-dramatic and self-indulgent for standing 
 out there with tears and snot 
 dripping down your face
 calling the name 
 of a child 
 who you know is
 dead.