jerrine wire

“Butch!”
Others would call the dark little house a shack. When I remember my father’s voice booming from the ripped screen door banged behind him. I trembled like every stick of that frail shelter I called home.
“Butch! I know you are here, get your sad tail out here! Don’t you make me look for you; you’ll be real sorry when I get ahold of you!”
Time has not softened the memory of the gray dry planks in the cubby above the kitchen are like armor that fits no one but me. If I don’t move he won’t find me.
My little funny baby knows how I feel. There is only one person who listens. He is comic not mean. When I look I at Baldy I have to laugh. When I hold baby close the rigid body doesn’t hug me back, I understand. No one wants Baldy but me; other girls want pretty dolls. Why would I want some fake cute face that reminds me of how ugly I am; some candy pink doll with curls and pink cheeks. I could paint on some scars so she’d look more like me. Forget the curls, father says they only give shelter to bugs. I love my happy crazy Baldy; I will never give her up not even when I grow up and run away to New York City.