Autumn 1968—Spring 1969, Age 17
The world turned softly gray and overcast. In the intermittent drizzle, the caravan sagged like a deflating balloon, sullen and brooding in its garden of nettles and thistles, bedecked with leak-proof silver ribbons. I was back in Dungarvan, living with Mother. Cork was no more than a glimpse of freedom, a dream of escape fading into a prison nightmare. How could it all have slipped away?
I couldn’t really blame Mother; it wasn’t all her fault. I’d agreed to everything—every choice, every change of direction, but like a labyrinth, whenever I turned a corner, there was another dead-end. I couldn’t find a way out and now I was trapped, doing the same dreary things day after day. I had to believe there was a point; I had to hope there was an exit. [Read more…] about 15: Stuck in the Mud