Home


They say that home is where the heart is. I don’t buy that shit.  I’ve been moved around so many times during the past thirteen years, I don’t know where to set my heart down.

I’ve seen shit that you wouldn’t believe. 

I’ve seen shit you would rather pretend didn’t exist.


I’ve seen foster parents take the money they were supposed to spend on my school supplies and buy designer jeans for their children.  I’ve watched the rain track tears down the moldy attic walls of my bedroom.  I’ve washed dirty diapers; scrubbed vomit from the carpet; wiped the snot from the noses of babies. 

But in this particular foster home, I’ve got a decent enough gig.  They expect me to get their daughter 

Cassidy off to school.  But other than that, they leave me alone.

They like me.

I’m not foolish enough to hope for love.

Cassidy and I head outside.  One street down, a thick blue hose crosses the sidewalk and runs into the storm drain.  “Hey,” Cassidy says pointing her finger at the man picking up his newspaper.  She’s a bossy thing.  “You’re not supposed to run pool water into the storm drain.”

“Why not?”  He frowns over his reading glasses.

“It’s dangerous.  You got all kinds of stuff mixed up in that water.”

The man eyed me.  “Seems to me you need to be thinking about what you’re mixing up in your house.”

“What do you mean?”  Cassidy said, scratching her leg with the tip of her patent leather shoe.

“Come on, Cass.”  I grab her hand and lead her away.  I drop her off at school; make sure she gets inside.  

But I don’t bother heading to the high school:   Pretty neighborhood don’t care much for poor kids, that much is clear.  It’s time to move on.  Time to make my way out into the world and find a place to settle my heart.

The thing is, I thought this was the place.

I thought I was home.
 
This was written for this week's Trifecta Writing Challenge.  The word was home.

Labels:

Writing in the Margins, Bursting at the Seams: Home

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Home


They say that home is where the heart is. I don’t buy that shit.  I’ve been moved around so many times during the past thirteen years, I don’t know where to set my heart down.

I’ve seen shit that you wouldn’t believe. 

I’ve seen shit you would rather pretend didn’t exist.


I’ve seen foster parents take the money they were supposed to spend on my school supplies and buy designer jeans for their children.  I’ve watched the rain track tears down the moldy attic walls of my bedroom.  I’ve washed dirty diapers; scrubbed vomit from the carpet; wiped the snot from the noses of babies. 

But in this particular foster home, I’ve got a decent enough gig.  They expect me to get their daughter 

Cassidy off to school.  But other than that, they leave me alone.

They like me.

I’m not foolish enough to hope for love.

Cassidy and I head outside.  One street down, a thick blue hose crosses the sidewalk and runs into the storm drain.  “Hey,” Cassidy says pointing her finger at the man picking up his newspaper.  She’s a bossy thing.  “You’re not supposed to run pool water into the storm drain.”

“Why not?”  He frowns over his reading glasses.

“It’s dangerous.  You got all kinds of stuff mixed up in that water.”

The man eyed me.  “Seems to me you need to be thinking about what you’re mixing up in your house.”

“What do you mean?”  Cassidy said, scratching her leg with the tip of her patent leather shoe.

“Come on, Cass.”  I grab her hand and lead her away.  I drop her off at school; make sure she gets inside.  

But I don’t bother heading to the high school:   Pretty neighborhood don’t care much for poor kids, that much is clear.  It’s time to move on.  Time to make my way out into the world and find a place to settle my heart.

The thing is, I thought this was the place.

I thought I was home.
 
This was written for this week's Trifecta Writing Challenge.  The word was home.

Labels:

7 Comments:

At August 14, 2012 at 3:49 PM , Anonymous Carrie said...

what a tragic life for her, never knowing where she fits, never feeling as if she is truly home.

 
At August 14, 2012 at 10:05 PM , Anonymous JannaTWrites said...

This is so sad. My heart breaks for kids that don't have the security of love. I've heard of stories where foster parents did exactly what you describe. That is so wrong.

 
At August 15, 2012 at 2:52 AM , Anonymous Steve Lavigne said...

I could really hear the narrator's voice coming through - good writing

 
At August 15, 2012 at 4:23 AM , Blogger lumdog2012 said...

This was wonderful. You really got into the head of the narrator. It's funny, I started with almost the same opening line but I was going for humor and it didn't go anywhere for me. But yours was perfect!

 
At August 15, 2012 at 5:00 AM , Anonymous kgwaite said...

lumdog2012 has left a new comment on your post "Home":

This was wonderful. You really got into the head of the narrator. It's funny, I started with almost the same opening line but I was going for humor and it didn't go anywhere for me. But yours was perfect!

 
At August 15, 2012 at 9:49 AM , Anonymous Annabelle said...

Aw. The narrator came through powerfully in this piece; I really want him/her to find home.

 
At August 16, 2012 at 10:12 PM , Anonymous Trifecta said...

Thanks for linking up with Trifecta this week. I really liked the storm drain element to this story. These unexpected details help lend your stories texture--they're the things you remember long after reading the story. And you're great at crafting them. Nice job!

 

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