When I was six or seven years old, something awful almost happened to me. It was a warm summer afternoon and Mom sent me out to roller skate so Dad could sleep. He worked at night, so we kids were supposed to be quiet in the morning, his bedtime.
I put my metal skates on my sensible, brown shoes, put my skate key around my neck and took off on Buffalo sidewalks. I skated past three houses on Hertel, through the church parking lot, past the rectory and around the corner to the gas station on Delaware. That's where I fell.
When I tried to get up, I couldn't. Something was holding my hair. I tried to pull away, but it grabbed me and held tight. I couldn't move.
The terrifying idea whipped energy into my fear, so I pulled my head away harder. It took more than one tug but, finally, my hair pulled free. Some hair stayed under the tire but the rest of it took off with me like a shot, head aching but still round.
I looked back after getting up some speed and the car was there still. Hadn't moved. The driver was a woman with a small hat, a veil and her white gloved hands around her throat. She was probably trying to breathe again.
On I raced around the corner and up the sidewalk, not stopping to cry until reaching the porch and seeing blood on my knees.
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