hippie braids

This picture was taken during our move from Hanover St; I was vexed we had to leave behind the cumquat bushes cutting the sidewalk from lawn in our late residence.The pouty girl holding up the magical box is my cousin Lisa, four years my senior who suffered slight brain damage from being dropped as a child. She may have been annoyed to discover i was hiding under the box all along; perhaps the look was fleeting, an instant of passing feeling caught like a crook on film, a secret of time shouted out for all to hear. The carved wooden bowls my mother aquired during her many rambles to the farmers market in the precious 1980's, the chips we ate organic and healthy. My mother's burdensome bag, located five-eighths up the right hand side, is flung upen from her last attempt to locate a pen, maybe, or a brush to comb her long flowing hair. The summer sun, i remember, shone strong that day; we retreated inside to escape the heat. The red and white object is a kazoo, shaped in the spirit of the times. Though i did not want to come out of my beautiful box, this was the dawning of a new era for me. Many adventures lie in wait, many a game to be played. Eventually the sun called to me; i emerged from my lair to see what it was there was to discover.