"It's time for me to go,
little horsey," she whispered
as he stood beside her bed.
"Where are you going?" he asked,
with the innocence of six.
He'd come to know what being sick
was like. Nine months she'd gradually
run down, her illness feasting on her body
like a fool, a glutton at her bones,
gnawing at muscle, loosening skin
making her too weak to play -
the occasional bedtime story
was all that she could do.
"Daddy will still be here
and Grandma too," she said.
Then through breaking tears he asked,
"But who will take care of you?"
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