Barbie

Gainesville, 1999. She came in a red jersey, not white like Brandi Chastaine's. Not so red anymore. We’d been kneeling an hour on the edge of the deck with a pan of water. 

     “Soccer Barbie, your hair is sooooo dirty!” Ella would pronounce.
     We’d give her another swish through the muddy pan, then grind her head into the dirt again. “Oh, Soccer Barbie!”

     Heyden, north of the Soo, 1970-something. I'd had to agitate for my first. She’d come at Christmas too, in a homemade silver-and-cream brocade tube dress. I’d lopped her hair off, markered on navy eyeshadow, and forgotten her.  

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