you are 6 years old in 1969 and your mom buys you Barbie dolls
but you would much rather play with your brothers’ Dinky cars in the gravel driveway
where you can construct an elaborate village out of rocks and make carports out of cardboard Mars bar liners and pretend you’re the dad who’s bringing home the bacon and
not the stiff-legged mom whose only job is to look pretty and make dinner
because even at 6
you know there is something seriously sad about that