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 The Last GirlIn the summer dusk, we came out like fireflies, the neighborhood children, swarming the best back yards. At the Sedlack’s, a long grassy span for football. At the O’Brien’s, a forest of shrubs for hide and seek. It felt like freedom, like a taste of being adult, running those blocks in the almost dark, at home in the space between homes. All last spring, the next-door neighbor’s yard was loud with backhoes and workers, building a basketball court for the youngest. Her mother says she wants to go pro. At maybe thirteen, she has long straight hair and serious legs, almost never smiles. She’s out there every day, and always alone. And I think, what if children running the streets are like frogs or salmon? What if their disappearance means we’ve wrecked the world past repair? What if she – I don’t know her name — becomes the last girl left on earth who will play outside? At night, I hear the shake and swing of the metal basket chains. Two points, then three. Two points, then three. |
