Her bedroom window faced the window above my kitchen sink. In the night, I could stand there comfortably, shielded by the sky’s blackness, and watch without ever being seen. On her later nights, I would stand in the window so long, my feet would go numb. The older she got, the later she’d stay awake-- though never past 10. The 4th grade was too tiring to stay awake past 10. Eventually there would come a point in every night when she would wear tired, make her way to the light switch, and diffuse the last source of light keeping me tied to her. Through pins and needles, I’d drag my feet and retreat from the window, envying those who would wake up the next morning and watch her through the sunlight.
I’d seen her in the sunlight only a handful of times. In prior months, I’d taken it upon myself to measure the time it took for the school bus to make its way around the block, so that I could leave the house to “retrieve the mail” just as she was leaving to catch her ride to school. Though there were only so many times I could check the mailbox at 6:47am before the neighbors started getting suspicious. So, when summer arrived, I crafted a new plan.
Normally, at the start of each morning, I could see the neighborhood kids setting up a game of baseball from the front window. I’d peer from behind the curtains as she would carry second base out to the edge of her yard, careful not to cross the line into mine—her parents had ordered not to. On no particular day, I made the decision to take matters into my own hands. I refused to let the sun have full custody any longer. So, during a lunch hiatus, when the bases were empty, I rolled up the garage door, tip toed out into the front yard, snatched up second base, and dropped it into my musty old garage. Hours later, I heard a knock on my door, and a sense of excitement shot through my veins. Expecting to open the door to my little girl, in all of her sunshine glory, I was frozen still to find a police officer on my doorstep.
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