poem from prewrites of my childhood

I know I hid from growing up, but another
Life far away, is still hidden -
Away from the summer morning station wagon, tan,
Baked inside and vinyl seats too hot to sit in
Sunday, riding to church with my family -

The four of us, in the burning car.
Mom's perfume and flowing dress and earrings dangling,
Papa's buttoned shirt, short sleeved arm holding my clinging brother

We step out, here -
The castle-house church, with crow's nest and spire,
Mom talking, preaching, I sit, look at my books, tuning out - 
Hearing bible stories, or sermons I couldn't understand
The flowers, or dried plants, or water -
Israel and the desert, wandering, like my boredom.

I explored the big house-castle building when the sermon was done,
Looking for new places, sometimes alone.
The church had an old tire swing, I would twist around
and wind it up, and spin really fast,
until the world spun too-

Like I did at my house,
but my swing was more fun - Papa made it for me.
The screen door opening out after sitting in church
would give me energy
To launch myself off the concrete porch, onto the front lawn
Running to the corner of  the yard, where the tall thin trees
And tangled bushes and grass hid the ditch that would be my fortress. 

Myself, and sometimes my brother, where we could be us -
And I could show him this secret place
Where no one else was allowed. 
And we didn't have to sit and wait to imagine
Great worlds and battles and adventures or heroes
Or find rocks, or bugs, or toads, 
No one else would know about.