Museum of Childhood

Dad didn't play the ponies or manic games at night; Mom was addicted only to her soaps. Sisters at war never swore. Silence was genius of an era, nothing personal. Our hidden grief shadowed the Fifties' sunshine like Eisenhower's speech against the military-industrial complex, like playground platoons still blowing up Japs. Thanksgiving comes late in this museum of childhood, flower painted at the bottom of a porcelain teacup: cracked saucer, no sugar, no milk.