Grandma Dot and Grandpa Ben pick us up in a shiny new Honda. We are running from a gang of white men and boys, the lost boys from the movie The Lost Boys. Some boys look like Kiefer Sutherland others look like Jason Patrick. They want something from us, photos of ourselves, photos printed on a white fedora, photos with catalog copy and price points. Grandma Dot wears a pair of black and white windowpane leggings and a mauve and black sweater. She has her hair done, she wears lipstick and isn't too skinny like she is now. She has all of her teeth. There's a glow to her skin. Grandpa Ben wears a red sweater vest over a white shirt, a pair of brown trousers. I sit in the back seat with grandpa Ben. I put the fedora from the picture on his head. He asks me where the hat was made. I look for the label and find too many. Grandpa Ben turns into an infant. He wears the same clothes. I morn the loss of his old body, the body I know, but I love the baby version of him and hold his tiny hands in my own. I look for Michael. He's in the trunk of the car, which is a little like an el Camino trunk. He rolls his eyes while holding onto a car seat.
