Partners in Time I am getting confused. This is not my hometown, nor The Platform, yet it feels like both and as I look ahead of me down the street, I see the past rolling by like a stick driven hoop. In the antique store my favorite Davy Crockett red vinyl record lies next to the camphor-smelling dead fox wrap, paws still dangling off of it. I think my pajamas with the feet in them belong in the second drawer of the bureau, but instead there are white silk gloves with single pearl buttons dangling over the edge, displayed as if for sale. This is a store, not the attic. Still, here is my Flexible Flier and my tin collapsible camping cup and my Viewmaster with the reel about Three Wise Men. As I slowly turn up the speed on the Lionel engine tearing around it’s oval track, I wonder who I will be when I grow up and look back on this place. I want to take it all, but my pockets are too small.