OneI am in a white Ford Taurus with my sister. She is saying something. I say something back. There is music playing. The music is vague, but I recall, now, that one of my earliest memories is of her driving our metallic blue Ford Falcon and singing along to "Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog."
She drives on. We are on Redwood Road--a broad road, with a flat open treeless expanse around us of random houses and strip malls.
I am adult me. She morphs from her eighteen-year-old self to her middle age.
And then, suddenly, ahead, there is a parade. The marching band owns our lane.
The flag twirlers spot our car and, screaming, bustle to the roadside, flags dragging behind.
The band breaks before us in a cacophony of terror. Trumpets and trombones fly into the air.
"They need to get out of the way!" my sister exclaims, hitting the accelerator.
I think we clip one of the girls as we pass. I try to turn my head.
TwoI am in the backyard with my brother. He is throwing rocks at the house. He is twelve, and has put one the pre-pubescent fat my siblings were all subjected to. He wears a yellow plaid shirt.
I am shirtless and skinny and eight.
He throws a rock. The rock hits our bathroom window. It bounces off.
He picks up another rock and throws. It bounces off.
He picks ups another.
I stand by the clematis vine that now, I know, was called "Western Virgin's Bower."
I look down at my feet and see a brick. It is red and has the three holes that bricks have, but there is another broken brick attached to it by mortar. The broken brick does not have three holes. It is and old pioneer brick--solid and hard.
"Throw this brick!" I shout, my child voice ringing out. My small hand goes down to pick it up.
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