Everybody knows herâ€”the girl in the neighborhood who never plays at her own house. Feet always tramping through somebody elseâ€™s yard. Feet chasing us boys and girls across blades of grass more familiar to her than her own luscious green.
â€śWild,â€ť my mama called her.
â€śFree,â€ť I silently renamed her.
Then, long after the nondescript truck crept away, the neighborsâ€™ grass yearned for the tender crush of her feet, but to her own green carpet, her prints still remained a stranger.
Her grandma, leaning against the kitchen door of her house, calls her home, every single day.