I’m five-years-old and my little red Hot Wheels toy car is cruising on the side of the couch. Suddenly, the giant fluffy blue road of the couch arm ends and the car crashes off the cliff.

Luckily, the car lands on its wheels – off I go.

Then, another crash; right into mom’s giant red pumps. I love those pumps.

“Watch it,” mom says. She is wearing a blue dress with her red pumps. Her shoulder pads could rival a line backer’s. Bright blue eyeliner shoots out from her eyes, red blush shoots from her cheeks. She looks as though she was putting her blush on in front of a turbo fan.

There’s the pink lipstick. Bright pink. The kind of pink, I’m sure, that isn’t even manufactured anymore for fear of sun glares on the highways.

“Where you going,” my voice is small and shaky, but I clutch onto my tears.

“Out,” she rolls her eyes at me; her tiny mistake she made at the age of fifteen. “You’re grandma’s watching you tonight. I’ll be back to see you, promise,” she gives me a hug that bloomed from the awkward conversation. 

Mom leaves. I watch the back frame of her line backer’s build from her shoulder pads as she makes her way out the door. I don’t see her again for another week, only for her to pack her bags and move to Hale Center, Texas, a small town forty-five minutes and everlastingly away.

Must not cry. Nobody likes a crybaby. Boys don’t cry.

I return to my little red Hot Wheels that, luckily, lands on its wheels again – off I go.