I regret

 slamming the car door and catching my niece’s hand.

 She was seven and I loved her

as if I had played a part in making her.

Because I had not done such a thing myself.

A sensitive child, her lump-in-throat and dewey eyes

indicated that she was bound to journey on a solitary road.

I was her favourite, being of her nature.

Returning from a family lunch I played my usual role

and without a thought shut the door on our special understanding.

As metal bit into tiny fingers

she at first uttered no sound but looked directly at her betrayer.

Then the shockwave hit and she voiced my pain.

A Cracked bone, the bruised and bloody hand of a child.

Her tears and stifled sobs; her mother’s glance.

It was then I remembered that,

according to Freud, there are no accidents.