PART I: MAKING UPWe carried our poverty on our rib cages, nicotine stained fingertips, grizzled dreams, and in our veins-- thick with the abandon of what was, and the romantics that could be. Our connections to each other were ultimately built upon our lack of connections to the people that culture told us would care the most. So we shoveled our histories into compartmentalized valves; hoping that t i m e and pressure might condense them into something more manageable. And then: rebuilt with our only tools, a FORTRESS to withstand the blows of those who told us we were not enough. What we failed to realize is that you cannot build a barricade | To keep out an enemy that is settled in your gut. PART II: MAKING DOSometimes I remember he carried that ankle bracelet with more care than his child, wrapping it tenderly, bathing it with a soft, wet, sponge. And in the early morning, on our family outing to the alley, behind the grey building, where he peed in a cup, to prove his worth-- we would cross our fingers for him. For his son. For ourselves. And in the afternoon we would park-hop with the baby, playing P-I-G or H-O-R-S-E, swinging on creaky play-sets, until the sun rested its brow on the mountain’s ragged edge. We would part when the messy family car pulled out of the parking lot, leaving me behind to prove my worth-- It still amazes me how many different varieties of grease can coat your soles after a night of work. How slick it makes each step as you walk home along the highway.
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