Diana L.


Nine years ago.
I was six,
You were ten.
Just four years older, but so much braver.
We biked in circles.
Laughing, yelling, screaming.
So young, so free.
Almost invincible.
My pedals slowed, you still rushed ahead.
Finally, I reached you.
Lying on the grass in a crumpled heap.
Blood so red —
Contrasting against the grey and green.
A man stood over you.
"Is this your brother?"
I stood there staring, not believing.
What had happened?
I couldn’t think.
What should I do?
"Go get your parents."
An order.
Tears streaming.
I ran.
Helmet clanking.
I ran.
Thoughts spinning.
I ran.
But to this day I still regret,
That I didn’t react sooner,
That my legs weren’t longer,
That I couldn’t run faster.
And now, when I see your scar,
Still on your face — a reminder.
Never leaving, never fading.
Like the guilt which is still here,
Inside me.
Forgive me.


Copyright 2002-2008 Student Publishing Program (SPP). Poetry and prose 2002-2008 by individual authors. Reprinted with permission. SPP developed and designed by Strong Bat Productions.