Girl Detective Shannon Mowdy

Then there is me at twelve, climbing onto the roof in only an oversized t-shirt. I regret now to say that she is probably ordinary, that perhaps most girls her age after some contemplation steal the skeleton keys from their fathers’ bureaus, from those slim, top drawers filled with war medals, and baby teeth, and pornographic playing cards, and almost-empty bottles of cologne, and condoms, and the watches their fathers gave them with hands that don’t move anymore. The girls jiggle the keys in the locks of their bedroom doors in their 200-year-old houses. The gears catch and turn.

The windows rattle horribly in their ancient frames as the girls work them open. It takes muscle, but also care. They imagine that the panes could shatter with their strength.

They are careful, too, to remember to prop them open with Nancy Drew Mystery novels. They arbitrarily select from the rows of yellow-spined covers, their second edition copies of #20, The Clue in the Jewel Box. Their mothers are collecting entire sets as they come across them in secondhand shops in the hopes that the girl detectives will read them belly down on their frilly pink spreads, dropping crumbs from peanut butter sandwiches on the pages and pushing the cats away. Like they used to do.

From the window jambs, a million Nancys shine their flashlights into a million caves. The girls will not lock themselves out on their roofs.

They climb, each with their own separate purpose, barefoot onto the asphalt shingles. Some of them thought of doing it only this morning. And for others, the idea came with the spring, something about the last day of school approaching, the budding of leaves. One girl, in particular, used to imagine herself standing tiptoe atop the highest branch of the tallest tree. Like a bird. Another remembers

being young enough to lie naked in the grass. Somehow it was softer then.

There is also, for inspiration, the sudden appearance one morning of sunlight, rays shining through the windows after a long dark winter. The dust particles and dog hair, floating like magic, become illuminated. The light is like water.

Clothes are flung all over their rooms, and pictures of famous boys clipped from magazines are taped to miles of peeling wallpaper. A chorus of mothers calls from below the stairs: wash the dishes, mind the baby, feed the chickens.

Each girl is born with all of the ova she will ever carry already inside of her. Millions of eggs that will wither and die. Most will pass through, lost in rivers of blood. Some will stick around. Of those, about half will grow into girls, each with their own millions of ova. Their longing will be immeasurable.

Shannon Mowdy lives with her husband and their five children on Long Island. She teaches at Suffolk County Community College and keeps a blog about writing, parenting, and some third thing at https://blurghmom.home.blog/.