By the time I was a teenager, I didn’t own seven items to sell—not unless I sold the boots off of my feet along with the rest of my possessions. My mother had not been in the picture for years. My dad, who had once been a writer, award winning photographer, and awesome storyteller, was slowly going insane. My brothers, sister, and I didn’t know about the brain tumor that was destroying his mind. We only knew that he gradually became unable to keep a job, pay rent, or feed his children. Then he decided that the world was about to end, and he had to hide us from society. From that time on we lived in houses with no electricity or glass in the windows. So, when I was a teen I couldn’t own anything I couldn’t carry with me.
My worldly possessions were: my desert boots, a dog named Shadrach, a snub–nosed .38, a knife, a wood block carving of a unicorn, and my father’s old portable typewriter—the one he had used before I was born to write articles and novels on. He never touched it anymore.
Boots wear out, dogs can’t stay with us forever, and I pawned the .38 one day when I was hungry. All I have left from those days are the unicorn, my knife, that old typewriter…and all the strange experiences I weave into my novels. J
Thank you for having me on your blog today, Kara!
Thanks for stopping by Kersten!
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