Word
My cousin Bobby can read. I can’t, and it breaks my heart. He’s six. I’m four.
My father’s giving us a ride in his brand new 1951 Plymouth. We’re driving on a familiar thoroughfare near our apartment in Queens when Bobby calls me a baby and I start to cry.
My father takes one hand off the wheel and points to the right:
“What’s that billboard say, Debbie?”
I sniffle, but crow through my tears: “Dugan Brothers, Bakers for the Home!”
That shuts Bobby up but good.
I’ve been in love with the power of the written word ever since.