My home. I own my own home. Ok, so it’s a trailer, but it’s in a very nice town - a relic of a time when trailer homes weren’t always connected with low-class people. It’s a very old trailer park. It was here when my mother’s mother moved to the neighborhood, when my mother was not yet ten.

The trailer itself is probably of 1970’s pedigree, making it about forty years old. The previous owner was an older man and he must have done a lot of work to keep it in good condition. When he passed away, his daughter inherited it, and I I think she must have lived in it for a while before she sold it to her brother. Her brother is an unfortunate man who suffers from some mental conditions and he was unable to keep the place up for years.

So it is, then that this place has about it a layer of history, preserved in a covering of neglect. Everywhere I can see the signs of the old man’s work. The outlines of a room that was removed to enlarge the living room. A trellis carefully woven with roses. The remains of several flower beds. Just to name a few.

But, too there are the signs of neglect. The trellis was overgrown, the paint has been poorly applied, and the flowers are choked with weeds.

I can feel the weight of time and my heart goes out to the old man and his long labor on his final home. I feel sadness for the decay of so much hard work, whether it be from love or duty, the old man’s spirit went into this place. It deserves better.

But I live here now. And I am not an unfortunate man. And I feel compelled to make this house a home to be proud of yet again!