Here's the mini-story I promised. It's not one of my best so please don't be too critical.

Slowly the black station wagon pulled into the driveway. The tires groaned in protest as they came into contact with the wet gravel. A procession of people, clad in black clothing, scurried from their vehicles into the house, as if the falling rain would somehow dissolve them. What they really wanted was to dissolve this overhanging air of depression and anguish.

As the people walked up the stairs, each of them glanced over at the small figure crouched on the porch swing, her black hat over her eyes; each of them wanting to approach her, but not knowing how, or what to say. The awkwardness they would have to deal with was too much, and they didn’t want to have to put themselves through that. They would rather go inside and drink coffee and eat little egg sandwiches cut in triangles. Dealing with a child with that kind of lose was not something any of them wanted to deal with. So they left her there.

There was a small crack in the arm of the swing. She traced it with her finger, wondering how it got there. In her short life she had never felt like this before. Usually the rain would make her smile; it would make her want to dance up and down the street, showing the world her bright yellow boots that had a blue stripe across the top. But now she was crippled with this feeling; it kept her glued to the swing. Sitting and remembering.

She and her father used to sit there, for hours on end, watching the sky and waiting for a flash of brilliant light. They would then close their eyes tight and both make a wish from the bottom of their hearts.

Her eyes were closed now, but that didn’t stop the tears from coming. They welled up, then spilled out, flowing down her cheeks. She wished that he were there – to take her in his strong arms, to kiss the top of her head. But he was gone. And she knew it was her fault that he was gone. It was all because of her.

She remembered just last night, sitting on the same swing. Her grandparents were inside, arguing as they frequently did. Her father had never liked them much. She had been tuning them out, watching the sky for shooting stars. But then her grandmother’s voice had pierced her ears.

“ He worked too hard; that what killed him. Always working too hard, and for what? His girl. That’s what killed him.”

She had been shocked. Had she really done that, she thought. How had she killed her beloved father? She had loved him, loved the time they spent together, loved the long walks through the forest. She loved the little things. She loved the way he made hot chocolate with so many marshmallows in it that all the liquid would be absorbed and she would be left with chocolaty-marshmallows. But she must be responsible, she thought, for she was only a child, and adults must always know better.

So there she sat, swinging quietly on the porch swing. Her feet hanging above the porch, the blue paint chipping off the railing in front of her. The procession passed her again, muttering word of sympathy that went unheard.

She was left alone. Alone with her guilt. Alone with her thoughts, her memories of shooting stars and chocolaty-marshmallows.