Val Dumond

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Sadness in One Sentence
by Val Dumond
©2006

The little girl, her dark hair flowing in the breeze and her very blue eyes closed in contemplation, sits in the backyard swing, barely moving her legs to keep it swaying back and forth as she listens to the sounds of the grownups coming from the half-open kitchen window just a few yards away, accusatory words flying from her much-loved father and returned in similar tones from the child's adored mother, as they argue about who is to take their daughter to the zoo for a weekend outing, a regular weekly occurrence that the child looks forward to with mixed feelings of hope and fear, for in the past three months or so these weekends have brought incessant combat that frightens the child, barely six years old, not yet in school, who wonders if she will ever enjoy another day at the zoo, or the park, or the mall, or movies with her parents, either together or separately, since they seemingly unable to agree whether or not they want to spend time with the child, or so it seems to her, a youngster who learned to read in order to distract herself from this part in her life that brings her to listen weekly to the dissention between her parents, the two who once laughed and held her hands as they danced their way to the park, who taught her how to plant seeds in the backyard and watch them grow into sunflowers, who fed her books and beautiful things to look at, and inundated her with squishy toys to play with and strawberries to paint her mouth red, at a time that should be long forgotten (since they most likely will not occur again) but which remain foremost in the head of a beautiful little girl who sits impassively on a swing in her backyard and watches indifferently as she drags her toes in the sand and listens for a song in her head that may never be heard again.

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