We’d meet at dusk, just before the streetlights turned on. Sometimes there were three of us, sometimes thirteen. Rounding everyone up was the hardest part, running from one end of the neighborhood to the other, then loping back again the other way because someone had to finish their dinner before being allowed out into the brisk night. We’d start with a game of virus tag, while there was still light glowing from the horizon. We’d span half of both blocks, boundary lines were often crossed, in order to evade capture; hiding in bushes, behind trees, or anywhere our small bodies could fit. Then when whatever remnants of the sun had fled, the flashlights would come out and the real game began. The key was darkness: in order to be tagged, the person with the flashlight had to shine it on you and correctly call your name; you could hide in plain sight, if you played your cards right. The more it darkened, the more competitive we grew, holding our breaths as footsteps passed by our undisclosed enclosures we’d put ourselves in. Though the anticipation of a chase through the street was too enticing to hide for long. Once you were caught, you’d serve to seize others; divulging their whereabouts. Traitors left and right, each one looking out for themselves. Then at the height of tension, the game would end and our assembly disbanded for the night. So carefree were we, unable to see our future misfortunes; just living in the now, which is now the then. Year after year, our commitment dwindled and soon no one gathered, no one ran, and no one played. Yet in my mind, those days will live on forever, as an endless summer sprawled across my heart.

–By Ivanna C.T. 16, Fort Wayne, IN