Just six years old when I found out that kids could die. There was a family at my grandma’s church— The only black family in the entire congregation. The mother was petite, wore thick glasses, and played piano during church. The father was greatly obese, with thinning hair, and a permanent smile. Their two boys were four and twelve years old. The night of their death I saw them at church. Service had just gotten out and I was running wild with my two friends. Both a grade higher than me. We ran across the large stage and jumped into the huge bathtub they used for baptisms. The four year old boy, only an hour away from Death’s grip. He said to me with a big, genuine smile, “Hi Daniel.” But he was only four. Practically a baby, I thought. I was running with the big kids. No time for babies. So I turned back to running around with my friends, ignoring his friendly greeting. An hour later that little boy’s dad pulled the family Lincoln Town car over on the freeway. Flat tire. While the dad was walking around the back of the car, the wife and two boys were waiting inside. Some ******* drunk slammed into the car. The dad watched the car fly forward and burst into flames. The smiling four year old burned to death that night. The twelve year old suffered severe brain damage and died two days later. The mother’s face, chest, back, neck, arms, and hands bore charred and bubbling skin. The father died of a heart attack a few months later. That piano playing lady of the Lord buried her whole family. A decade later, a teenager back at my grandma’s church for mother’s Day. The burned former mommy and wife still sat and played at that piano. For some reason she was still working for the big guy upstairs. I couldn’t understand it then, and I still don’t. For not saying “Hi” to that doomed little boy that night. That was the first time I’d ever felt like an *******. When I was six years old.