Plastic Cheese

Plastic cheese and Dollar General sheets. The smells of cigarette smoke, a karate dojo and summer melted together. Fights with my brother and lying to my mother, hiding the tattoo I got at 16. Fox News in the background, throwing up my dinner. I got my belly button pierced and was told I could be skinnier. Southern charm to everyone but us, someone's on the phone, can you kids just hush? A carton of Camels and a couple packs of Virginia Slims on the top of the fridge. "Close the front door, we can't afford to cool the whole ridge." 100-year-old photos with ghost eyes in the bathroom, tea stained doilies on top of the toilet. Plastic cheese on cheap white bread, peanut butter and jelly if you want that instead. Two hours to get to the bluest lake, but the boat almost flipped in the storm of '98. Popeye the Sailor Man being sung by Dad - I think it was the most fun we ever had. Plastic cheese and Home Alone, Christmas in the basement - photos we didn't feel like taking. Home isn't really a poem, and I'm not really a poet. Home is how you feel - not perfect, but whole.