Rolling Child

My first memory is of rolling down a hill.
I hear mom calling “Where’s Barbie?”
I’m nestled in the tall grass of the Vermont farmhouse. Tryin’ to hide, full of giggles.
Waiting for her to come and find me. Then,
I hear mom talking to George about the barbequed chicken.
Chattin’ to cousin Harriet about her hair ribbons.
“Nana, do you want some more lemonade?”
“Is the Olman drunk enough to do the eat the lit match trick?”
I watched the sun roll down the sky and the stars kept me company.
I waited until the cow moon came home.
I waited, smiling at the sky.
They packed up the ’52 Chevy and discovered I was gone.
I don’t remember any thing else for a long time.