When my mom turned into the quiet, suburban trailer park, I was taken by surprise. I hadn't expected her friend from the past to live in such a place. She'd described her as someone who lived "comfortably" in her own filth. This place was brimming with lush, green grass, quaint fountains churning jets of crystal clear water, and park benches sprinkled with people appreciating the serenity of the day.
Meanwhile, as my mom maneuvered the car through the tight twists and turns with ease, I found that the further we explored this place, the more the decay showed through. Siding became increasingly stained and torn, roofs were dismantled, wooden boards were carelessly thrown on the withered clumps of grass, and chunks of silty earth spilled into the paved road. The car squealed to a halt in the narrow driveway of a small, crimson-colored trailer. The yard was riddled with trashbags both black and white, an assortment of spare tires, and scrap planks and metal chunks.
A stout woman with hair like a wild beehive wrapped in a bandana threw herself out the netted front door and it slammed shut behind her. I looked on from the passenger seat with horror as my mom yanked herself out of the car and fell into the open arms of her friend. Only moments later, my mom and her friend returned to the car. I rolled my window down and stuck my head out as she craned her neck to say,
"Hop out of the front seat and take your stuff inside," she jammed her thumb at the house, "my friend and I are going out for a while. She has a son who's just older than you, but he's not home right now. He's down at the beach, or in town. He might be coming back later. Maybe you'll get along."
She pulled open the passenger door, and before I could fully unbuckle my seatbelt, her friend had tugged me out of the car and was squeezing me enthusiastically into her tight, pink, polkadotted blouse.
"Make yourself right at home dear," she squealed politely with a distinctive southern drawl, taking my seat in the car. I could hear my mother rummaging through the trunk for my belongings. "There's food in the fridge and you're more than welcome to watch the TV. We may not be back until dark, but I'm sure you'll find enough to do."
She slammed the door shut and my mother the trunk at the same time. My mom wheeled my suitcases to my side and pressed the handle at me. Before I had time to object, she rushed back to the driver's seat and sped off in reverse, she and her friend screaming erratically all the way down the winding road. They were out of view long before they were out of earshot.
I shrugged and dragged my suitcases behind me up the cracked pavement. I heaved them up the crooked, creaking steps one at a time, and shoved them through the propped door. The trailer looked much smaller than it had on the outside.
A small kitchen sat immediately to the left: a simple metal sink space, microwave-sized bit of counter, yellowed refrigerator cloaked in multicolored magnets, and a hanging light dimly illuminating the crumbs sprinkled on the counter. I cringed. The living room was composed of a simple creme colored couch perpendicular to the side counter and speckled with stains of various sizes and colors, a small knicked up coffee table, and an old box televsion sitting on a shelf packed with books that I could smell from across the room. On either side of the conjoined room were wooden doors, I counted four of them; three on the right and one on the left.
Abandoning my suitcases at the doorstep, I wandered through the house, keeping a watchful eye on the speckled, carrot orange carpet beneath my feet. I wondered if the carpet had been picked to disguise stains, or was an entirely different color to begin with. I decided against taking my shoes off. I was sure my mom's friend wouldn't mind.
Elegant picture frames riddled with traces of spider web that had been haphazardly brushed away at the last second ornamented the plain paneled walls that wrapped around the room. There were some photos of the family within those frames that I neglected to get closer to due to a mysterious dark spot on the carpet below it.
YOU ARE READING
Dream Journal
Random"Dreams are the illustrations of the book your soul is writing about you." - Anonymous.
