Street Light

Kit laid on her back on a picnic table in hopes of catching the media shower, as she had done so many times as a girl. A spot for deep thoughts. The table rested on a slab of patio just beyond a sliding glass door that separated her from Mom and Dad, who were glued to cable news in the dining room. There had been another bombing. Maybe a shooting. Kit hadn't listen for details.

She knew her parents were watching interviews with bewildered neighbors (can't believe it happened here), crime scene videos with flashing emergency vehicles, conflicting rumors. Tomorrow they'd watch heart wrenching victim profiles (she was the light of our lives) and, of course, the killer profile (angry, heavily armed white guy).

She could hear the excited voices of droning doom from her parents' network of choice - the one that stoked fear, patriotism, faith in Jesus, and was sponsored mainly by pharmaceutical companies suggesting a multitude ailments that lurk in their future. Fear brought to you by more fear.

Kit was straining to see meteors beyond the blue glare of the new streetlight in the far corner of the yard. Goddam streetlight, she muttered.

The streetlight had been installed, pole and all, over winter break soon after a string of house break-ins and shootings in the neighborhood. This was Dad's tireless explanation to neighbors or anyone who had the misfortune of stepping out onto the patio after dark. The fact that the break-ins and shootings occurred miles away on the west side of town was irrelevant. There were shootings in the news. Mom was scared. So, Dad put up a goddam street light in the alley.

Planes flew by but no meteors. There was a time when you could spot satellites moving across the sky, probably the same satellites that beamed the television signals that made Mom fearful, she thought. A vicious cycle. Not tonight. No satellites, no meteor shower. The more fearful we become, the less we are able to see in the natural world. File under Picnic Table Deep Thoughts, she smirked. Probably the last.

A distant flash of lightning briefly lit up the southern sky. Kit started counting. A thousand one, a thousand two all the way to ten. Nothing. No thunder, probably a summer thunderstorm a hundred miles away in north Arkansas, beyond the blinding lights of Branson.

Branson, Missouri. Christian Las Vegas with no gambling or showgirls, but similarly filled with poor hotel workers, underpaid musicians and washed up celebrities, so washed up you had never even heard of them in the first place. Her parents' favorite date night, Branson. Drawn to light like moths.

There would be no meteor shower tonight, maybe never again unless somebody shoots out that goddam light, she thought to herself. Mom would freak, would just make things worse. She knew finding her own place was the next big thing after school, somewhere where she could see the stars again.