Home.
I never thought I’d be returning home.
I thought I would die at sea.
But here I am, lying on a park bench in baggy shorts and a T-shirt.
I look homeless.
That’s because I am.
Miami isn’t my home anymore.
It hasn’t been my home for over three years.
I’m not sure it was ever really my home, even when I was living in Miami. The trailer I inhabited with my father barely ensured I had a bed to sleep in and a roof to protect me from the rain. Most of the clothes I owned had holes in them. And my belly was never fully fed. Although, I would go back to that time in a heartbeat.
Back then I wasn’t really starving. Back then I’d never experienced pain or understood loneliness. Back then I wasn’t completely alone. Sure I only had my father and Mason, my best and only friend. I
