"Pappy died," she said.

Her tiny voice was warm.

"Pappy died".

They had been close,

those two,

the closeness of the old

and very young.

Her mind at three

would not accept

this thought,

I thought.

"Pappy died," she said,

"My cheacher say

that dyed

is colours on a cloth.

Nice pretty colours, red

and blue and yellow

for my Pappy."

I did not laugh

or smile.

I knew she knew a truth.

For he had put

his colours on

the fabric of

our lives,

and since he was a good and decent man

his colours made a bright and shining rainbow.