The Willow Tree

 
She fell out of the willow tree. Lying on the ground she opened her eyes one last time before disappearing from the world. She looked like a doll, lying there, perfectly still, sunshine dancing on her cheeks.
        My mother covered the tiny coffin with pink roses and daisy chains. She couldn’t watch as they gently lowered it into the ground. Instead, she turned to my father and buried her head in his shoulder.
        Her bedroom is still the same as it was before. My father tells me not to go in there, not to touch her things. But sometimes I see him sitting on her bed, hugging her favourite bear, the patchwork one with green button eyes. Sometimes I see my mother sitting under the willow tree and gazing up into the branches to where the tree-house used to be. To where she laughed for the last time.
        The newspapers said it was a tragic accident. But I heard two of the mums at school whispering about ‘lack of parental supervision’ and ‘never being able to forgive themselves’. They didn’t know I was listening.
        My mother and father said not to blame myself, they said that accidents happen.
        I still miss her, my little sister. I can’t get her face out of my mind. I’m sorry that I pushed her. I didn’t mean for her to fall.