I used to smell it on the subway from time to time.  The smell of burning plastic and my stomach lurching. The first time in my life, I lived with my father.  Something I wanted all my life.  I did one year at college and had  no job.  Struggling with the death of my mom, being taken in when I thought no one would, not knowing where I wanted to go or what I wanted to be.  I moved from Long Island to Queens to Brooklyn. My dad had made a new friend.  I called him Uncle Jeremy.  He made the best tuna fish salad and was a cool rasta.  Come to find out, he had repoisoned my father. Eight years to relapse the smell filled the house often. I joined a friend for their family trip.  First time for that kind of connection and care.  She had truly earned the name Grandmama. I met her little cousins,  had my first snowcone,  and bathed in a river.  I returned to my dad and I’ s apartment when the smell hit my stomach.  I had waited two extra years to live with my father. I didn’t know then that was the smell.  We had a heart to heart I had only dreamed of.  I told him about the girl who was chatting me up,  the fun time I had in Woodstock,  and how I dont understand what life is.  He responded with his experiences with love and life. He wished me a good night at dawn.  My constant life struggle is keeping my room clean.  My goal was to finally clean my room.  I decided to take a nap, resting before tackling the dragon.  The inferno was just beginning.