20 years might as well be 200

The other night my sister and I were rummaging through the squirrels nest that is my childhood home. Over the years my father has used it as head quarters for his tree removal business and temporary home to crack smoking vagrants and big bootied hoochie mamas. Among the beer cans, wiry brillo pad threads (used in crack pipes) and piles of dirty clothes are the crumbs of my childhood. A baseball trophy with a broken bat, little books on UFO's and "How To" Magic Tricks, forgotten photographs and yellowed opened mail. My grandmother, Mama Ruby's antique furniture is also there, as well as her sewing cabinet (still full of buttons and thimbles). My father holds onto all this stuff like he wants it but he treats it like garbage. Worse...he lets other people treat it like garbage. I ended up sneaking away with my father's old drag racing trophies, and a faded picture of my great grandmother. I may go back for the buttons and books, but the place feels like a mausoleum. It is hard for me to believe that I had my Christmas's in that trash strewn living room, did my homework, daydreamed, read my little books, listened to my music, and played with my brother in sister in that dark creepy basement apartment. It is hard to convince people that it use to be a nice place. I fantasize about fixing it up one day. I hate leaving my childhood in that state of disrepair, although it is probably appropriate.