Burnt orange rays flatline on the horizon. Like the setting sun, I’m tired and ready to rest. We wait, standing on the sidewalk at an intersection for the crosswalk light to change. Traffic passes by on this balmy evening in April 1993, somewhere deep in Midwest America. Makes no difference where exactly we are. As usual, we’ll be back out here, on the interstate on-ramp pushing us farther from the place we once called home.

 

I tug at the straps on my backpack, adjusting the weight, but have no room to complain. His pack is lot heavier, with a full frame. He has our bedroll and a plastic gallon of water tied to it with bungee cords. His pack carries our hygiene kits, flashlights, a little food, and other things we need. My pack has our few clean T-shirts, dry socks, tobacco, and a deck of cards. He also keeps his weathered childhood family photos pocketed deep in his pack lest he forget where he came from. I have no pictures, no heirlooms, and no keys to the past.

 

Excerpt from Chapter 1, Page 1

“Out of Chaos: A Memoir”

Copyright 2018 by Elle Mott.