memory.
Not a complete picture.
Fragments.
A white truck.
Summer evenings.
Coins warm in my hand.
A friendly man behind a window.
And always, somehow, my strawberry shortcake bar ready before I asked.
“You were that man?”
“That was me.”
His voice was almost a whisper.
“I used to have yours ready when I saw you running down the street.”
I stood there, trying to understand how a forgotten piece of childhood had somehow appeared in my adult neighborhood.
“But Millbrook is four hundred miles away.”
“I know.”
“And you’ve
