The worn factory home, anchored behind the concrete liquor store on Josephine Street, was a place for my family to land after taking flight from what had become a prostituted communal homestead. More than that, it offered a much needed respite from the sorrowful death of my sister Shelam.
The once bountiful woodland paradise where my father and his friends tried to create a utopian ideal was consumed by greed while brain cancer feasted on Shelam. Watching Shelam’s colorful demeanor and dark-skinned little body slowly fade and pale during a frost bitten January left everyone cold and haunted.
These past pitiable events were not original and they were not the conclusion to a hard spate. They were dark fibers that had been drafted before I was born and would continue to spin and thread their way through the remainder of my life.
We had found a retreat in the larger hovel, but the feeling about the place was broken and lonesome.