Leaving the World

When you drive a while to get there, you stay. Three and a half days at the happiest place on earth. It is especially exciting when you are seven or four. When the swings are not crowded you stay on eight times until your aunt excuses herself, taken by headache or stomachache . . . it is so hard to distinguish. You tear off a ride and beg for more. You don't mind screaming at top speed and often lift your hands against the wall of air. You enjoy measuring yourself and asking if you make it. You are fascinated with Lincoln because he is a robot. You eat cotton candy and popcorn twice. You fill a tube with sour sugar. At four your most frequent question at Disneyland is, "Are we outside?" While Soaring over California you turn to inquire, "What's behind us?" By ten, you have graduated to "single rider" status on California Screamin' as you walk right on, no line. You are impressed they could think of the coolness of Autopia in 1955. You walk by drained rapids and bemoan the closure. You hold your baby brother on Small World. You are an older child.