Five sweaters and a hat find me in the kitchen. Predictably, mother left cigarettes and no note, so I have one over orange juice.
And I make myself concerned suddenly with just where those same mothers have gone absent to, with the indoor weather something now intolerable.
Kids who had race car beds probably grew up to work in finance with an inflated ego, a coke habit, and wildly premature ejaculation issues. But for that moment in third grade, they were gods.