I was 11, 
sweet, shy, solitary,
the darkness sliding into the night sky 
outside the bedroom I shared with my sister,
the day's heat still pulsing through the open screen.
 
Alone in the two-storey house,
I was changing 
into my nightie, peach-coloured, nearly transparent,
when a distant, unfamiliar excitement 
sent me from the bedroom 
down the hall
down the stairs
feet barely touching the cold linoleum.
 
Anticipation quivered 
as I swept through the kitchen
out the door 
into the yard.
 
Distant stars looked on
as a breeze tousled my long brown hair, 
riffled my nightie 
and breathed through the thin material
onto my bare chest.
 
I stood tall on the cool grass, 
arms outstretched, alive--
then, seeing headlights 
I moved back inside
through the kitchen
and up the stairs. 
(Fifty years on, it stirs me still.)
 
 
(This piece won the Many Voices monthly writing contest in February 2026.)