Red Curly Hair

She has red curly hair
And giggles like an eight
Year old which we both are,
She lives down the hill from
Me and has a high porch
On the backside of her house.
The stairs to it are steep and
A long way up,
From the railed porch you
Can enter their kitchen.
We are talking and I am leaning
Up against the railing
Wondering if it will give way
And I will fall down onto the
Nearest of the two strips
Of concrete, their driveway.
She has climbed up and is sitting
On the railing across the porch
From me next to the side of the
House as she nonchalantly
Talks and swings her feet
High above her backyard.
She tips backward and is gone,
I run over but she has fallen
A long way down onto the
Backyard ground.
I pound on the screen door to
Kitchen and her family
Come out and rush to
Her as an ambulance is
Called and after the
Excitement is over and they
All rush to the hospital
I walk up the hill to home.
Later that evening her
Family show up at my front
Door angry and looking
For a scapegoat to blame,
I explain again what happened
But they cannot accept that
Someone is not to blame
And eager that it be me.
They are feeling guilty and
Desperate to find fault.
After awhile they go home
But then I am interrogated
By my parents on what happened.
I think of this incident as I
Go through life and wonder
At the need of some folks
To affix blame for what
Is only chance,
An accident seems too
Impersonal for them
To accept and
They need always
To even a score
That exists only
In their own
Minds.
I never know
What happened
To the little girl
With the red
Curly hair.