#MeToo

We grew up poor. White trash, you might say, though my mother would take offense. Our annual pilgrimmage to the east side of the state was the closest thing to vacation. The much anticipated journey ended at his house.

He lived across the street from his mother. Different, but harmless, they thought. Smelled of cheap aftershave and pottery clay. Loved kids. We would stay there, while mother stayed across the street with the other adults.

He would care for us.

He would bathe us.

He would sleep in our room. And touch us.

Our secret.

But I was a boy. White. And poor. Sometimes even a bit of a troublemaker.

No movements for us.

No us.

Just me.

Alone.