There was an abandoned trailer at the beginning of
the “U” shaped road. The bottom of it was all stripped down, probably by some
guy in a pick-up truck looking for scrap metal. The door was roped off with
caution tape, which meant nothing to us. Walking in to that trailer, I felt
like Pip from Great Expectations walking in to Ms. Havisham’s old dilapidated
mansion. It was a mansion to me. It was a place for us—my newfound family. We
lived in that ramshackle shed all the year long. We found broken bottles and
spun them until we began to quiver with nervousness at who would have to go in
to that dark closet alone and get kissed, as though it were a punishment. All
of us orphans who corded ourselves together on that beautiful string of
discord. The ones who fed us and bathed us and were supposed to check our
backpacks—they were all phonies. We knew what real family was and we redefined
it for anyone looking from the outside. We were different colors, different
genetic makeups—all struggling against that same tide, holding on to one
another praying we didn’t drown the one holding us up.
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