Do you remember our modest bi-level on Sublette Circle, with the south-facing picture window? Behind that window, I remember you rocking me not to sleep, but awake on sun-filled mornings, when sisters were in school and Dad was in the shop. It was just you and me.

My white blankie over my head shielded my clenched eyes from the sunflow. I basked in your warmth on those winter Wyoming mornings.

That blanket would double, later in the day, as my superman cape when, I combined it with socks pulled up knee-high over shoes, with an extra pair of tighty-whities outside my jeans. I would soar invincible from that house to greet my sisters’ bus; but I was powerless to do wrong in your eyes. 

                Little red wagon

     trundling me from the park—

                           oops! soggy blue jeans