I wish I could have warned you. I know it all seemed like just a game— following those older boys, up the concrete curved staircase and through the wrought iron gates. And then, climbing the ladder to the highest point— the rooftop on the rooftop, like a secret castle in the sky of your beautiful imagination. Your face touched the sun on that bright blue day. The park far beneath you, people sprawled atop the surface of a green jewel— God's view. Up and down, up and down they went, and you followed, so happy to be included, the symphonic musicality of children's happy voices a miraculous revelation— to hear your own among the sweet, sweet sound. I'm so sorry I didn't warn you not to climb the ladder that one last time. I wish I could have turned your head before the older boys slipped away, kicking the ladder to the ground— leaving you alone on that concrete rooftop. That beautiful perch now a jump that would break your tiny legs. The monumental loss was so immediate, you felt it grow within you— the dichotomy of darkness inside on such a bright summer day. Your mind struggled to understand. I cry for you still. You were far too young. The hours passed. The sky began to darken. You knew you had but one choice. No matter what I ever could have done, you had to learn the sad truth one day. And if I could not have prevented that shattering, I should have held your hand as you leapt through the air and through the years. Please forgive me. I should have held your hand and broken your fall.