by Wakefield Mahon
Strolling around the botanical gardens, we finally arrived at the bench Sally had been so excited to see.
“Is this it, Sally? I told you I would take you anywhere.”
“At least I’ll have a wreath of ivy over my head.” Sally smiled up at me. The gold medal I’d bought for her glinted in the late afternoon sun as I helped her to the bench.
A broken handle on a pummel horse had ended her Olympic dreams, but it was the infection from the botched surgery that was killing her.
“Thank you, Daddy!” She coughed and closed her eyes.