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Jesse was a visitor my mother brought home to stay with us. Each one of my brothers and sisters share the same memories about Jesse. Our family was different. The collective version of our childhood became one voice. Many years later retelling the stories became one large Technicolor screen we watched safely from our kitchen chairs. 

I wished my mom had met Jesse in a bar. He might have felt more safe. My mother picked him up while he was being held for evaluation. Snuck him out of a loopy physchiartcic system and brought him home. Sometimes it takes a professional to look at a person and know how crazy they can be. My brothers and sisters could have given my mother a quick read on Jesse. My mother never asked. She just brought him through the door. 

We were living in Phoenix Arizona with Camelback Mountain casting a shadow over our ranch house. There were no cowboys working this ranch, only my mother. The kids were the ranch hands. The new ranch style house was plopped down in an old orange grove. The fragrance from the orange blossoms became our calendar. Spring was