A Poem: What If?

"Do you want a ride to school?" he asked.
It was early autumn, early morning,
and I was in the second grade.
This was many years ago, long before
parents were reminded to warn their
children about the things that could be.

I was a blond-haired happy-go-lucky
innocent child who didn't hear the
word rape uttered in our house, ever.
There were no 'good touch, bad touch'
discussions, or any reason for me to even
think that rides to school could go wrong.

Clad in my brightly-colored cotton dress
and proudly carrying my Dick and Jane reader,
I had set off to walk the six blocks to my
school which I always did - there were
no rides to school in those days.
I walked, as that was the custom then.

I knew who he was, and I knew his name.
He was much, much older and he had
a family and had lived in my town forever.
So when he pulled up beside me and
offered me a ride, I wasn't frightened
in the least by that. Why would I be?

The prospect of getting to school early
made me smile a big smile, and I hopped
in beside him in his old pick-up truck.
We drove toward the school, but we
didn't turn on the right street that
would take me up to the door.

Instead, he kept on driving to the edge
of town, and then a mile further, and
then a little further still, until the truck
came to a stop just inside the cemetery.
He hadn't said anything, and I was so
bewildered that I froze, speechless.

Then he broke the silence, and as he
pointed to my lap, he asked another
question: "What do you have down there?"
My innocent little mind was trying to
process all that was happening, but
I knew that what he asked was wrong.

I drew my book up close to me, and,
finding my voice I answered as firmly
as I could muster, "I need to get to school!"
Why this was happening was a mystery
to me, but I did know that school would
start soon, and that I needed to be on time.

I was a child, and I thought like a child.
This was not good, and he needed to
understand that we were in the wrong
place, and he needed to drive back to
the school so that I wouldn't be late.
Tardy I understood, and I was never tardy.

He looked at me, looked around, and
then sat staring out the front windshield
with his hands gripping the steering wheel.
My voice got louder as I repeated again,
"I need to get to school or I'll be late!"
He stared ahead, and didn't answer me.

Throughout the years I have wondered
often about that crucial moment in time.
About what thoughts he might have had
and if as he brooded he was calculating
consequences -- weighing those in his
mind against that which he desired.

Or was my guardian angel there with me,
cloaking me with a hedge of protection
that the man could see even if I couldn't?
Perhaps five minutes or so had transpired
and he hadn't spoken another word,
and he didn't look my way again.

His hand turned the key, and the engine
started. We slowly drove through the
cemetery driveway, down the road
and back towards town and my school.
When he stopped I closed the door
quickly after I exited. I didn't look back.

And I never told anyone, and never have
told this until now. Why? What goes
through the mind of an innocent child
that blocks out what is not understood
but has that aura of wrong, including
wrong doing by even oneself?

The events of that morning have always
stayed with me. Now I understand that
I should have told, and maybe the guilt
of my not having done so has made the
secret even more difficult for me to divulge.
What if, I ask myself, there were others?

For other articles by this writer, click here.

Poems in "the white picket fence series" by R.C. Johnson are:
A Poem: The Night The Blind Man Came
A Poem: Monday Wash, Tuesday Iron
A Poem: A Summer I'll Never Forget
A Poem: Clothing, My Wagon and Me
A Poem: My Friend John

Other poems by R.C. Johnson:
A Poem: Sometimes We Can't
The Day the Checks went Missing
A poem: Mighty Seniors Save the Day
A Poem: What Others Wouldn't See
A Poem: That Place Between my Ears
A poem: Memories are Made of This
A Poem in Haiku: What Does Live On?
What, No Money, Honey?

Source:
Personal experience