Allamanda

It is never gray in Coral Gables, Florida,where I learned to drive before I was five.The yellow flowers make their own sunlight,climbing the fence alongside the house,which is always white. In their light

I pedal my miniature jeep, with a fold down windshield,like a real Navy jeep, my father built of plywood.It is always like this. I pedal down the drivewayin their light, turn the corner in back,and pull up to my own play house

he invented for me from an old chicken coop.Behind the screens in the cool, a serious lookon my face, I mimic my mother serving tea(Allamanda, she would sing) to raggedy Annie,whom my grandmother stitched,

properly seated in the ladder-back chairpainted with flowers like my pinafore.As on yesterday and the day before, I pretend-washthe cups and saucers and put them awayon the shelf where the hens used to lay their eggs.

It’s always like that. I make sure I’ve closedthe door, climb behind the wheel of my jeep,back up, turning to look over my shoulderlike a real pro, and drive away in the directionI came from in their yellow light.