29

 

 

 

 

29

 

 

Make the black marker tumble down an inch or two. We kept moving. We stayed at roadside motels, the safer ones with clean-enough swimming pools and no used needles or wasted condoms lying around the outside steps. Not the ones that looked too rowdy for kids our age. The worse ones were always small and sour-smelling. Water stains on the ceilings. Mattresses sloped down in the middle from years of heavy bodies and not enough turning. The bathtubs were stained with yellow rings no human hand could erase, and the mirrors were flecked with small black spots like fleas frozen behind the glass. At night the sounds of people yelling, of TVs playing too loud. Sounds masking other sounds.

The check-out days, those were the best mornings. The quiet rush just before dawn. Momma ruffling my hair, dancing her fingertips to my armpits, kissing my cheeks to make me get up. Me giggling, kicking my feet, reaching my arms around her neck so she could