Accidents Happen

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By Marigold Blooms

She’s the most fragile child now. The first to become ill. The one they nursed in the hospital, brought home, too weak to walk for months.

“God saved her,” they repeated to whomever they encountered. The doctors had instructed them to plan for the funeral.

It was just milk. Spoiled, sour milk given to her by the well-intentioned neighbor lady upstairs. They didn’t blame her. Accidents happen, they repeated to themselves in acute moments.

Who gives milk to a child and doesn’t check? Accidents happen. From spoiled milk?

They took turns wheeling her around the house in her wagon.

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