This is a faded picture of a fading memory. This was my childhood home, lot #25. This small sketch tells so many more stories than what meets the eye. In this image I see the tree where I broke my arm, the truck that nearly killed me and my step-father. I see the antenna that I would adjust manually, no matter how cold it was outside, so we could get a clear picture on the television. I see the storage shed that I helped my step-father build, the shed that was often a target for thieves.
I see the cactus that received better treatment from my mother than I did. I see the cactus that I destroyed in protest. I see the window to a room that was not big enough to house a little boy. The room where a little boy first learned that if a goldfish is left in a small bowl, that goldfish stops growing. The room where a little boy decided he was not going to be a small fish. I discovered a love for art, for reading, and for writing in this place. I learned to escape the physical confines of my environment through art and stories.
Now all I see is a faded image of a fading memory that tells a story this man would rather forget.