Her mother was a sad woman. She had dreamed of being a dancer and for her hope she was placed in a metal chair. She had smiled easily once, or so the child was told. All she saw was her mother as a sad woman riddled with pain, and a very tight mouth. The child would wonder if her mother kept her mouth so tight for fear that laughter or joy would seep out. Her mother told her that her name meant Precious Gift from God. One day her mother told her that she was her curse, her burden, her cross.

So one day she changed what her name meant. She did so by choosing to believe a lie, but that is another story for longer days.

Her grandmother came and took her on weekends. She took her to the farm. The Farm, the farm, all week long she dreamed of going to the farm. At the farm she was with her grandmother, and her grandmother would tell her over and over again that she loved her. The farm was cozy and warm. In the winter cedar logs were burnt not to heat the house, but to make it smell just right. In the spring, huge vases of flowers adoredned mahogany tables and desks. In the summer she would walk gravel lanes along side fence lines covered in honeysuckle and wild roses. In the fall there were pile of bright gold, flaming orange, and violent red leaves to jump into. At the farm she could read all day long, or hike till sweaty, stained, and saited. She could swim in the large L shaped pool, or listen to her grandmother play the piano. The farm became home�

Every night she would fall asleep and think about the weekend to come. She pretended like she was at a boarding school run by the Queen of Hearts during the week. Her mother watched her daydream, and made her mouth even smaller than before. She would hold the weekends out like a carrot before a mule. The time of going to the Farm every weekend had passed by the time the child was eight.

When the child was eight, a bad man came to live at her house. He was evil like a Wizard in one of her fairytales. Her even smelled evil. He controlled her mother, he made her smile, not with happiness but like a broken doll or someone who had had a lobotomy. One day he did the bad thing, and the next day he did it again. The child called her grandma to tell her how bad the man was, how her mother smiled all wrong, and how very badly he hurt her. Her grandmother was not home. Grandpa picked up. She poured out as much as she could between her sobs. Then he did a curious thing. He told her to stop talking, to never tell anyone again, to pretend that it didn�t happen, or, lose the farm. The farm would go away and it would be her fault so she did the only thing that she knew to do. She saved everyone�s home. The child curled into her play world, and locked herself tight.

Not long after the child was sent away. She went to an institution for children who locked themselves away in their heads. She went back to her mother. She was sent off again. She went to an institution, a series of institutions, for children who had parents who called them their burden, their curse, their cross; she went to homes for children who had parents that pounded their love into their flesh, with fists, with brooms, with parts of their bodies that children don�t even fully know the name much less the use of. She went back to her mother. She was sent off again. She went to the place where children who look like adults, and adults who think like children go when they became violent�break the rules�wear the wrong color of skin in the wrong town. She was let out to be on her own.

Finally after all that moving, all that time being spent sent away, she was free. She wanted to go home. For years, she had fallen asleep the name of home on her lips like a prayer, a bitter salve. For years, she had longed for home. Lived all alone in her head, locked away, dreaming of her return. It was not to come.

She went back to the farm. Things were not as she remembered. It was summer and the gravel lanes still had their fencing covered in honeysuckle and wild roses, but it was changed. She was not welcome. This time her grandpa sent her away.

Away she went. She traveled by bus with one bag of belongings stowed below and did her best not to cry. She locked herself away inside her head telling herself to pretend that it didn�t happen and promising herself that she would return home, to the farm, to her grandmother that said she loved her.

A year past. It passed like all the others that had come before. Only now when she looked in the mirror it was not the child�s face she saw. It was a woman of about 25, with closed eyes and a tight mouth. Every night she went to sleep the name of home on her lips like a prayer.

She called her grandma to tell her that she was going to be able to come home for the holidays. Her grandmother did a curious thing. She told her that there was not room for her. The child that was no longer a child finally understood.

If she was not wanted there, if there was no room for her then surely it was not home. She had made her home long ago. In her mind that she had locked herself away in, there was a fireplace burning cedar not for warmth but for the smell. There were walk in closets filled with designer clothes, bookshelves that extended into infinity, and people even if only facets of herself that told her she was loved.

So that night she laid down to sleep, home on her lips like a healing salve, home on her lips like a prayer, and she didn�t wake up.

They sent her away to an institution where people go when they find that home is in their mind. Her mouth is no longer tight. She smiles, and her eyes are empty because she doesn�t need them any more.

-Adipose

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