I’m 5 years old. I’m riding in the back seat of my Parents 2 door Plymouth Cranbrook. I’m sitting on two square kapok filled vinyl boat cushions. Still, I can’t see out the front windshield. Through the side window the low winter sun flashes between bare trees strobeing me into a tizzy. I’m about to puke.

My Father pulls over. My Mother leans forward. I dart from the car into the nearby trees. I vomit. Composing myself in the afterglow, I spy the chunky ant-infested vestige of last week’s vomit.