There’s a photo on my desk from the first time I left the United States. In the photo I’m riding in the back of an old truck sitting back-to-back with a smiling man I don’t remember. The frame has wooden trim with black metal supports giving each of the corners stability.
In the background of the photo is Honduras. There is a thick overgrown forest. Adjacent to the forest are a few homes. One is green and the other a pinkish color. Each has tiny dirt driveway.
We are going somewhere, but I don’t remember where. The wind is blowing my hair. My eyes are squinting, the sun in my eyes, and I have a slight smile – not quite a smirk. I’m trying to keep my balance because the roads are bumpy.
Behind the camera is my Grandma. All the photos I have from that trip were taken by her.
I haven’t spoken to my Grandma in over a year because I have disconnected myself from that part of my family. You see – I don’t speak to my Dad because he failed as a husband and father. He chose drugs and himself.
My Dad lives and works at a motel in rural Alabama owned by my Grandma. He has easy access to Meth and plenty of other drug addicts. Some of which he swaps sex and stories with while high. Technically, he is still married to my mother, but now she lives alone in project housing. I blame my father for being weak and having poor character. I blame my Grandma for enabling him and making excuses for his behavior.
Now I do not speak to any of them.
Still – here on my desk sits a nicely framed photo, a memory I quite enjoy. The wind blowing my hair.