Playing House

He’s made a beautiful room for us here in his van, with a bench and a bed and a carpet of rags and rough towels. There’s a camp stove for our tea and a canvas curtain pulled shut to hide the steering wheel. It smells like wood chips and apples and mildew when I crawl in after him, and then it’s welcome home, lying on his thin blue quilt with his rosy chest resting on mine and his fishing pole strung across the skylight, still trembling, the lure dangling like something joyful torn straight from my throat.

Photo Credit: Andrew @Cuba Gallery