but I forgot rollerblading past knobby old oaks, hollows gaping at our speed. I forgot wheels stuttering on cracked pavement, skidding on fallen olives,
Our cars were old. My mother did not shave her armpits. My father wore Birkenstocks. Our house was built in 1885. We rented. My
is the shop on G where you sell your baubled do-rags, huge yellow hoops, leather jackets slumping with time, trading them for new eccentricities: