1977, and we're rolling in my mother's Ford Falcon. I am three, my brother 15 months younger. We are probably wearing snowsuits because the weather in Connecticut grows winter-cold, and we get looks and smiles from the tollbooth workers.
A year later we will leave this place, emigrate first to our grandparents on Reiss Place and then much further than East Lyme or the Bronx. Before that moment, I will wear a blue Mets cap and grin, with ponytail and tiny teeth, for the camera.