“We used to walk this way to school,” she says, voice soft as we pass the long stretch of cracked sidewalk lining Route 13.
I stare out the window. “With the busted chain link fence.”
She smiles faintly. “And that dog that tried to eat your shoelaces.”
I huff a breath that almost sounds like laughter. God, mornings back then felt endless. Me sprinting from the trailer park half awake, hoping my clothes didn’t smell like Grandma’s beer-soaked living room. Erin always crisp and organized, hair brushed, binder neat, the kind of girl teachers loved.
We pass the old gas station where I used to work weekends.
“You’d still be in your uniform some days,” Erin says.
“Couldn’t afford not to work,” I murmur.
The road curves, and a white house with a deep porch slides into view. I can picture the yellow mums in the flowerbeds.
Erin nods toward it. “My aunt’s place.” I glance over. “I stayed there sophomore year,” she adds quietly. “When my mom disappeared for a while.”
I remember. The whispered hallway talk. The way Erin pretended it was temporary, even when we both knew it wasn’t. “You fed me dinner more than once.”
She laughs gently. “You looked like a starving kitten.”
Because I was.
We leave the paved roads behind, tires crunching onto gravel as the trailer park comes into view, faded siding and rusted porches lined up like lost hope.
Morning light does nothing to soften it. The porch light still flickers out of habit even though the sun’s already up, buzzing like it’s annoyed to still be part of this place. I haven’t been here in years, but my body remembers every warped step, every sag in the floor when I push the door open without knocking.
She’s in her recliner, TV blaring some game show rerun, a half-empty bottle tipped between her knees even at this hour.
“Well, look who got too good to visit,” she slurs.
I don’t bother to respond.
Erin hangs back near the door, silent support, while I open the folded paper Erin gave me. Lucy’s list.
I walk to the tiny bedroom that used to be mine, that’s now hers, and read it once before I start gathering things:
Pink blanket with the bunny
White rabbit “Flopsy”
Blue shoes with stars
Purple night light
Mommy’s picture from the dresser
Hildy’s pictures
The book with the red dog (Good Dog, Bad Day)
My yellow cup
Sparkle sweater
Hair bows in the bathroom
Each item lands like a tiny punch to the chest. Proof she lives here. Proof she built comfort out of scraps just like I did.
