You mix flour, water, and sugar in two tiny porcelain cups. I sit at the little table, a big-rig Texaco tanker parked at my feet. We’re eight and four. Going places we’ll never see, your pasty mix delicious as pie at this playhouse diner by the side of a long open road. Beaming, you refill my empty cup, seconds for the trip. I climb onto the Texaco tanker, long-haul trucker, and quietly roll down the hall, past the closed door of Mom and Dad’s room.

Bio: Guy Biederman