Call Me Kat

It was seen from the corner of my eye.  A small, crumpled bit of paper lying by the path among a few scattered, dried leaves and the remains of a half-smoked cigarette butt.  It didn’t appear to be trash, just lost.  Curiosity being one of my traits I reached for it and looking it over it was obvious that it had most likely come from a child’s notebook.  It couldn’t have been there long, it wasn’t soiled or torn, just crumpled in the way it would be if it had been creased inside a closed or tightly fisted hand.  There was a faint scent of cigarette smoke on it.

Perhaps the owner of the discarded butt had held it and, after reading the note was so shaken they crumpled it and tossed it away, followed by their cigarette.  Then rushed off as to forget as quickly as possible the entire event.  What could be that bad?

There goes my imagination again, open the paper and read it.  It is probably nothing.  Slowly, carefully smoothing the folds, and turning to see the writing, a child’s hand writing, “Daddy please don’t go”……….