superheroes.

four ragamuffin kids on their grandmother's front lawn.  two barefoot, one in sandals, one proudly wearing his black socks and sneakers.  all posing without prompting, simply because their underwear told them so.

underoos.

of all that is sweet and holy, has there ever been a better kind of undergarment?  the silky polyester, the matching tops and bottoms; i mean, it was heaven.  1979 kind of heaven.

i remember being so shocked and excited by the fact that my supergirl top was sort of like a bra, but not.  it felt powerful.  i remember my cousin melissa inhabited the body of Wonder Woman; elbows up and back, ready for action.

my brothers were all smiles and goofiness, but i think melissa and i knew that we had changed into some other form of girlness, some kind of magic had overtaken us and we were a force to be reckoned with.  couldn't stop us then.

there is something about finding the photo that you really needed to see tonight that makes you feel as complete as you occasionally feel.  just seeing your grandmother's writing on the back of the kodak-processed film is enough to get you through the hot, humid night.  enough to soothe the melancholic burrs stuck all over you, because how could you not feel empowered after seeing yourself in such a stance?

summer when i was eight years old, when i could still run in underwear in my grammie's front yard, dodging the bean pods that had fallen on the ground from the tree by the street.  sweet golden summer when i could have saved you, and me, and the whole goddamned world.