The days seemed longer when I was a child.  It was as if life was a sun dial, and my short little legs couldn’t move as quickly as I followed the moving shadow in front of me.  There were long hours of daylight spent playing, learning about who I was.

            There was a structure to my days; a pattern easy to fall into.  The quiet drone of Lupe’s snoring would fade and turn into the rituals of the morning.  I used to think the snores where sounds made by a baby giant standing outside my bedroom window, calling me to come out and play.  In my fright, I would run across the room to rouse Lupe.  Just having her awake would chase the monster away. 

            That morning, like every other, I jumped out of bed, got dressed, and brushed my teeth.  My parents were already at the table gulping breakfast; eager, I thought, to go to work.

            Aftershave hugs and coffee kisses were passed as I ate my boiled eggs and toast.  My older brother was bundled into the car and rushed to school, while the morning madness at home settled into a quiet rhythm.

            For me, the hours of play that followed were just a diversion, a way of killing time until my younger brother, Lupe, and I would walk to school in the afternoon to pick up Rick.  It was always summer in Southern California, and I can’t remember a single day of dreariness or rain as a small child.

            I stood outside waiting for Lupe to get Ron ready for our walk to the school.  It seemed to take forever.  I stood first on one foot, and then the other, alternately looking down the street, then at my front door, as if the school would disappear if we didn’t hurry.

            The next year I would get to go to school, too.  Then Ron and Lupe would have to make the walk alone.  I hoped they wouldn’t get lost without me.  But on that day, my only hope was that, while there, somebody would mistake me for a student.  I always tried to look a little older when I went to school to pick up my brother.