Four

Four. I rarely think about the number four.

When I was three, I’m pretty sure as my

next birthday approached, four may have

crossed my mind. But back then, four meant

as little to me as three. I have few memories

of being one or two. Those were not milestones

in my young life to even consider. At four, I

I’m sure I wanted more. I had a Roy Rogers’

hat, a Hopalong Cassidy cap gun, and most

likely I figured that a horse like Trigger would

complete me. I attended Ding Dong School

on weekdays with Miss Frances on TV. I had

no idea as to what being a Baby Boomer had

in store for me, let alone where I would be some

sixty-six years later. Drinking coffee and writing

Poetry in the morning? Why at four, I’d have to

wait four more years for Captain Kangaroo to

debut on TV. Hell, back then I hadn’t even the

slightest clue as to the meaning of “debut.” It

would still be a few years until I would discover

that saying “hell” would get me into trouble. At

seventy-years, after the life I have thus far survived,

a hell of a lot stronger language than that is to be

expected. At four, I certainly couldn’t have imagined

that this f***ing hip of mine would give out on me.

Chris Hanch 9-8-17