That’s my father, she said.
He didn’t look like that statue when he died. He was lying in a ditch next to two other soldiers and his eyes were wide open and staring at the sky.
The girl always seemed to be there. No visible connection to anyone at all. Maybe nine or ten, with blond pigtails and wearing a plain calico dress, she stood beneath the statue of a Civil War soldier on the village green. As if she were keeping him company, as one should at a memorial. People walking by would notice her, or not, but her blue eyes, when not distracted by birds frolicking in a nearby tree or kids playing at the far edge of the green, were focused on the soldier.
A young policeman had noticed her several times that weekend, through the open window of his squad car while driving by the green. Whether she was there at night or not he was not on duty to check. However, on Sunday it was raining hard and she was still there, huddled at the granite base of the statue, soake…