By Lindsay Sproul

There are those people sometimes that you just remember(—)maybe it’s their smell, like in an animal way you’re not even aware of, or the way they look at the sky, or maybe just some kind of invisible magnet, but for most of us in our little town, I believe that person was Dooley Flynn.

At South River Primary School, during recess, right after we learned about Christopher Columbus again, Dooley walked over to the far end of the soccer field where no one was and placed sticks in a square around her body, then stood in it. Abandoning the swings on the yellow set that everyone fought over, a boy whose name I forget ran up to Dooley and asked her what she was doing. 

“This is my land,” said Dooley, a hint of curiosity in her voice, gesturing toward the square she stood inside. 

“No, you can’t just do that,” said the boy, and soon there were others. The yellow swing set was empty, for the only time in the history of the universe. There were other voices, defiant, all wanting that same square now that it was separated. 

Dooley smiled, but a little sadly, like she was looking at a kitten who had just finished cleaning itself and left a cowlick on its head, thinking, oh, kitten, there’s so much you don’t know yet. I don’t remember what I was wearing, but Dooley had on old, baggy Carhartt overalls, and even though they were hand-me-downs from the neighbors, she looked strong in them. I also wanted that square, now, I’m ashamed to admit. I wanted that square, but I also kind of wanted to kiss her, or maybe read her a story. I don’t know. I wanted something. 

Dooley finally just stepped away, looking at (—)no, through(—)the crowd around her. I remember that the weather was the kind of weather you don’t even think about as weather(—)the kind of temperature you can just ignore because it’s that perfect. 

“It will always be my square,” she said to us, and walked away. None of us said anything. 

I sometimes imagine her now, Dooley Flynn. Over the decades, I kept waiting for her to be famous, to see her in a movie one day, but of course she never was. I imagine her alone, drinking tea from china so thin the light peeks through. I imagine her in a yellow room, reading a thick book with no title, or maybe even writing one. I imagine her most when I’m doing something regular, like running out of dish soap or paying my taxes, and I’m pretty sure she knew, earlier than we did, how to make her sad life matter. She knew already that nothing was anyone’s; all you have you are only borrowing. I mean, I imagine her knowing that, even though I barely knew her at all and only just looked. All of us did, I think. In a tidy corner of our minds, she has a square, and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t even want it.