How sorry he is
I feel the tip of his rifle and it feels smooth.
I am sixteen and my father�s daughter, and this is a man who looks after us.
Sometimes, he brings me treats and does not ask for too much in return.
My father would not have approved if he was still alive.
I don�t know where my mother is. She didn�t come in on the same train as I did.
Some older women look after me, but I feel utterly alone.
So I feel grateful when he comes around. I do not starve.
We sneak away to private places where we can be alone.
But tonight, he says he is sad and won�t let me touch his gun, telling me things are going to be different in the morning, telling me we all have to go somewhere sometime and now it is my time to go.
He shakes his head and tells me how sorry he is.
Then he tells me good bye