The man in the pickup truck
says he didn't see her;
didn't hear the breathless shout.
Just a thud.
Then silence.
Her mother runs out, barefoot,
leaving the stove on.
She kneels beside the girl
as if praying for time to reverse.
Grief pours into plastic flowers and teddy bears,
balloons losing air, tied to a chain-link fence.
I walk past it every day, the same spot
where she sold lemonade last summer.
There are still toys in the yard.
A pink bike lies on its side, a Barbie doll
in a faded blue dress waits in the basket
for a ride that won't come.
The news truck is long gone,
chalk outline washed off in the rain,
but the sirens still echo.
And a family is left
with an empty space
shaped like a little girl.
Her name was Maddie.
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