Losing Buddy

She ran her hand across the soft feather-like tops of the wheat, enjoying Sunday because it meant no laundry and no dishes and no darning.

"Buddy," she called, "don't go so near the ravine. Mama says it's dangerous." She was only ten, but she was charged with watching her three little brothers, including six-year-old Buddy, who was always finding ways to get into trouble.

"Buddy, I said to come closer." Gracie took a step towards the horizon. Her skirt caught on something- a stick. She bent over to free it, ripping the calico at the hem. Mama would not be happy about that, but Gracie didn't know why Mama cared, since Gracie'd have to fix it herself.

When Gracie looked back up, she couldn't see Buddy any more. "Buddy," she called. "Buddy! Get up. Stop playing games!"

But her calls traveled woesomely across the sadness of the northern plain. Buddy had fallen into the ravine and would never get up again.