The church was full of people many of whom were friends and neighbors. "What’s going on?" I wondered. I tried to move closer but I was restrained. I recognized the church having been there before with my wife. I had only attended a few times over the years. We were married here and when Samantha Jane was born, we had her Christened here. It was an old church with massive wooden beams that extended from the floor all the way up and across the ceiling and back down the other side. Stained glass windows lined the walls of the sanctuary which when the sun was high reflected the light into a prism that was breathtaking. If you could build a church that would make you feel closer to God, this was it.

I was startled by the doors of the church being thrown open and people standing. I could make out an organ playing in the background. People were crying and their eyes were fixated on the back of the church. I saw my wife Emily first. She was dressed in a simple black dress with a black hat and shoes to match. There was lace across the front of the hat that did little to hide the pain in her face. I tried to call out to her, go to her, but I couldn’t move and she didn’t hear me. I recognized others from both sides of our family. Grandparents, parents, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, cousins, all were accounted for. At the end of the procession a man being pushed in a wheelchair by a nurse followed. I tried to place his face but I did not know him. People stared as the nurse pushed him down the aisle. He seemed oblivious to the stares of hate and whispers that really weren’t. His eyes were open but vacant. He didn’t appear to respond to anything around him. I wondered why everyone appeared to be disgusted by his presence. Perhaps he was a relative who Emily preferred to omit from her past for reasons I did not know. I thought it odd that I wasn’t at Emily’s side. I felt desperate to know what was going on but could not break from the grasp that held me. The family was seated in the front of the church with the lone man in the wheelchair sitting in the aisle.

With everyone seated I could see the front of the church for the first time. A child has died! The casket was solid white and draped with pink carnations. It couldn’t have been more than five feet long. I was desperate to know who was inside but it was closed. My mind was racing as I thought about everyone in the family with children. I frantically searched through the family and one by one I could see their children with them. Everyone that is, except Samantha Jane.

Samantha Jane I was convinced was quite possibly the most beautiful little girl in the world. She had long strawberry blonde hair that ran the length of her back like braided silk. Her eyes were deep blue and she had this way of piercing through your very being with them. She was a happy child. Samantha loved to read, loved to play sports. In short, she loved life. She was just nine years old. Sorting through the cobwebs that covered my mind I remembered picking her up the other day from t-ball practice. I had been running late having stopped off for a quick beer after work. I should have gone straight to her practice but it had been a really bad day at the office. In the span of an hour one beer turned into four but I made it to the field just as practice was ending.

My attention was directed back to the front of the church when the pastor spoke. "Friends, family, I can’t ever remember more difficult a task than to find words of comfort to offer you now. If ever there was a time when I have had to fall on my knees and beg God to help me hold onto my faith it is now." He paused and lowered his head and I could see that he was trembling. "Jesus, you said suffer the little children and bring them to you. It is with a deep heavy heart that we bring you Samantha Jane." He continued to speak but I couldn’t hear his words over the sound of my own heartbeat thundering in my ears. Did he just say what I think he said? It can’t be. I was just with her, or was I? Think. I remember the practice and putting her glove and bat in the car. I remembered yelling at Samantha to hurry up after telling one of the mothers to mind her own business when she asked if I had been drinking. What I didn’t remember was getting home.

A scream from the back of the church broke the silence. "That murdering bastard should not be here." "Please folks, this is hard enough on the family as it is" the minister pleaded. "I know it’s difficult not to assess blame here but I know in my heart he loved this little girl." Everyone’s attention in the church rested on the stranger in the wheelchair. Who is this man? Did he kill my little girl? I wanted so much to run to the front of the church and confront this man. Kill him with my bare hands if he indeed was responsible for the death of my child.

He shifted suddenly in the wheelchair and in his contorted face I saw my own. I was the stranger. I had killed my little girl driving home from t-ball practice. I remember approaching a light, seeing it turn yellow, and thinking I could make it through the intersection. I remember the collision on the passenger side—then nothing.

I began to sob and shake violently. "Dear God no, take me, don’t take my little girl!" I was crying uncontrollably and wanted so much to die, to take her place.

"Daddy, daddy, what’s wrong?" In my personal hell I could hear her calling.

"Daddy, wake up you’re scaring me. You’re having a nightmare."

I felt myself rushing out of the fog into the light. I awakened to see Samantha Jane standing over me with tears running down her cheeks. I had fell asleep in my chair, the bottle still in my hand. Pulling her tight to my chest I continued to cry. Never releasing her from my arms I walked to the kitchen and threw my bottle in the trash. It was to be the last drink I would ever take.