The Promise


Jaimie's childhood home was abandoned, but on land owned by her father.  To get to the house, we had to dance through barbed wire, tiptoe past horse pies and fend off kamikaze flies and mosquitoes.  She hadn't been there for years.  The place was a shambles, a porch had caved in, perhaps under the weight of all the horse feces that had piled up there.  Every step Jaimie took she took gingerly, the threat of snakes everpresent in her mind.  I led the way, and she lauded me for my bravery, but then conceded it might just be stupidity.   When we actually did find a snakeskin, Jaimie was ready to leave her past behind and get out of there.  On our way out, I noticed this disheveled room was bridged by two rickety wooden planks to the bucolic outdoors.  It seemed like a promise to a better life.  Jaimie, always a bright girl, managed to get out of Littleton and graduate with honors at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro, a city where she still lives today.  When she saw this picture, she asked if she could have a copy.  She said,  "Because I know what it is, and what it means."
          
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