Guilt

She was walking down the path. All around her green, green, grass and mighty, old, oaks. She was at the foot of the hill but the asphalt was sloping down. Her body started tilting forward and her legs struggled to catch up. Shuffling, as quickly as she could, she realised she was losing her balance. And then, as if in slow motion, she fell. Head first, gliding forward. She tried, but her hands could not block the fall. Her face hit the asphalt.

For a few seconds the world stopped. The wind no longer rustling the leaves on the trees. Dogs chasing balls no more. Quiet. And then she cried. Blood gushing from her mouth. Dripping on her shirt. The pain too sharp to contain. The cry growing into a howl. The tears flowing down her cheeks.

Finally, I managed to reach her. My 18 month old little one (MLO). Lifting her from the path, I held her in my arms feeling the pain in her mouth as if it was my own, licking my lips from the blood on hers. The guilt was burning in my chest.

PS 510km down. 490km to go.