I don't remember what Thanksgiving felt like as a child. I don't remember eating turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes - there's no memory of it. I don't even know if we had a Thanksgiving feast. Sure, I remember those hand-print turkeys you make in kindergarten, maybe even those "What I'm Thankful For." projects, but other than that my mind shoots a blank.

Ten years later, Thanksgiving only proves to be strangers (my mother calls them "family") gathered around the television set, eating cold turkey and "all the fixin's." It's not something you would see in a Norman Rockwell painting - but then again, it never has been. If anything, my family was always more like Picasso's "Family of Saltimbanques" - they were acrobats - destitute, but together. And they were alone. (I liked it that way).

My only faint memories of Christmas as a child consist of Charlie Brown specials and Barbies (maybe a G.I. Joe doll.) I don't remember doing a Christmas project in school. The first Christmas tree I really remember was about five feet tall, and had a whopping number of ten ornaments. It was a beauty. I loved that 5 foot, pseudo, non-smelling Christmas tree - because it was ours - mine and hers.

The way I see things, my life only started after a three-hour U-Haul trip up north.

My first home (I've had a number of homes) was on a farm - or a ranch, you could say. I chased chickens, wrestled with the boys next door, (I remember winning one of these infamous wrestling matches - only to receive a rather hard blow to the eye by a boy that was four years older than I) and I marveled at the wonders of nature. I questioned everything - with the exception of some things (the important things.)

I remember asking an old farmer that had a large, tan ranchero hat and dirty cowboy boots, (your typical ranchero man; very tough and stoic) how two hogs "made babies." I later found out he had lied, and that in reality, hogs did not "roll around in mud together" to "make babies." Go figure.

The real answers to my questions were always a bit latent - left for me to eventually answer myself. I never asked too many questions though (well, none of the important ones at least.) I don't remember asking why I had to live three hours away from my dad and sister. I didn't ask what divorce was (I guess I just sort of knew - but it never fazed me.) It was never me who questioned these things. I never questioned why there wasn't a man - a father figure - in our family portrait that hung in our living room - that hangs next to the bathroom now. Did I not care? I remember one particular night I began to cry - I was seven - and my mother asked:

"What's wrong mija? Are you hurt?"
"No"
"Estas triste?" ("Are you sad?")
"Yes"
"Why? Do you miss your daddy?"

And it was through tears and snot, that I surprised my mom by responding:

"No.I miss Charlie."

Charlie was my hamster - not my dad. And Charlie never would be. (Ironically, ten years later, I'd never miss Charlie again.)

See, it was never me who questioned it.

I didn't question why we had to leave the ranch - where hogs rolled around in mud, and I could chase chickens - the place that I had grown to love and most of all, learn from.

We moved. We moved to what I liked to call our "shack." It was a shack that was about the size of what her Majesty would consider the size of her walk-in closet - maybe her bathroom. One badly-painted bedroom, one miniscule bathroom with peeling wallpaper, a kitchen with chipping tile, and a living room with ugly, brown carpeting, and a 6X6 patch of soil outside (the rest of the driveway was gravel) where I would eventually grow flowers - this was home. It had seemed more glamorous in the newspaper ad. Nonetheless, like the Christmas tree, I loved it too. We were happy.

My farm animals had been replaced with a collection of stray cats. There was Snowy, Jimmy, Gavin, Lauren, Henry, Blondie, Cleo.believe me, the list could go on. There were new kids to play with - Vincent, and a girl that was five years older than I named Cindy. Along with the infinite number of cats we fed, and the two friends I would later leave, there was another addition to the family. She's the person that I now call, "my other half," a person I can easily say helped shape the person I am today. My sister - Danni.

Danni influenced me on every level - she was the epitome of cool in my eyes. My sister was a seventh grader, wore army pants, and had a purple streak in her hair. She listened to the Smashing Pumpkins, and played bass guitar.

I was a second grader, wore basketball clothes, and had no streak in my hair. I wore a tribal necklace (probably something I had gotten from a yard sale), I said the word "groovy" to an extensive amount (my story about a "groovy dragon" on a "groovy planet" on a "groovy spaceship" was published in my town's newspaper at one point), I played with Robocop and army action figures, and I recall listening to Celine Dion every night before bed.

I was a strange kid.

I would be cool someday, I thought to myself.

It was this shack, the cats, my bass-playing purple-streaked sister, and my mother that I considered to be my home. It was within the walls of that house, within my love for every one of those mangy cats, within the "groovy-ness" of my cool sister, and within the heart of the woman who kept me standing (who still does), that I had found my home - my family. We were alone, but we were together - like the family of acrobats.

My family has never been normal (Hell, what family is normal?) but it is this idea - this trio of women - that registered in my mind as "normal." And always will, despite what is now, and what was then.

We moved. I left Vincent, Cindy, and all the strays. I replaced them with new friends, Sarah and Matt, and a fair share of maybe two stray cats (you can always find stray cats.) These apartments were on the far west of town, had a playset, a large yard of grass, and was less shabby (not to mention more spacious) than our beloved shack. (There was no place to grow flowers here.) Like the Christmas tree, and like the shack, I loved it too - more so, I loved the people who made it a home - my family. Our family portrait hung in our living room in this apartment.

There were trips to the beach, to the south, to the mountains. There were pictures of us making snowmen, of playing Frisbee next the shore, of us on my sister's graduation day. But as our family album turned a new page, there was someone else in the background - a face that seemed to form a fake smile - a fake person.

It was this time in my life that change affected me - changed me, rather than just time and other people. There was someone else in our photo album - in our home. Pretty soon, our "family" would become a trio again. A trio made up of, not three women, but two women and a man.

My other half was leaving for college - leaving me to battle alone. It was these changes that had skewed everything I had known up until then. It was a change in my world of new friends and stray cats. He was neither.

Charlie, not my hamster, but my future step-father, was a new addition to the family (to my family.) He wasn't the epitome of cool. He wore cowboy boots, smoked a pack of cigarettes a day, screamed obscenities while watching football, and cooked bad barbecue. A real charmer.

I hated football - he worshiped it. He listened to Tim McGraw - I listened to the Smashing Pumpkins. His streak-less hair was balding - My red-streaked hair stayed intact. He loved my mother - I loved my mother. Despite all conflict, and how "cool" I was and how cool he wasn't, it was the thing we held most in common that had caused the most turmoil - the most pain - in this new era of "change." It was his presence that had caused World War III.

My mother's boyfriend eventually turned into my mother's husband. If you look closely enough at the wedding pictures, you can see my fake smile contrasting the smirks of the strangers I am now forced to call family.

We moved. Coincidently, the house we moved into this time was across the street from our shack. Our address changed from 375 N. Third St. to 475 N. Third St. - three to four - like the change in family members. This house was bigger than our shack - it was more spacious than our apartment had been. (There was no place to grow flowers here either.) It was always a bit hollow - there was never any warmth in this house. I hated it - so did my mother. The only thing I loved about that house was the roof - I used to watch sunsets from there. It was then that our family portrait had been moved - it now hung in the hall.

I saw Cindy again - by then she was in college and drove a green Honda. We only waved to each other, I don't recall in my year of living there, ever speaking a word to her. There was no Snowy, Jimmy, Gavin, Lauren, Henry, Blondie, Cleo here - in fact, I don't recall any stray cats at 475 N. Third St .

It was after the summer of my eighth grade year that I had become an entirely changed person. The life with my mother had changed - and so had the life with my father (my real father), but that's a different story. It was after this particular summer though, that both aspects of my life - the life with my mother, and the life with my father - had both been shattered, like my mother's broken heart. Charlie had left - my mother and her cowboy boot- wearing husband had separated - and it was I who kept her standing. It was I who kept her standing when I could hardly stand myself.

We moved. Compared to the shack, this place was the Taj Mahal - and still is. It exudes warmth - it's not hollow here. The walls of this house are meticulously painted with flowers, there's no chipping tile, and the carpet is a lovely chestnut color. There are a number of stray cats here. There's no place to watch the sunset, but there's a place to watch the stars. There's a place to grow flowers here.

He eventually came back though.

I had somehow known he would move in again - even before "Charlie and I are getting back together" escaped my mother's mouth. Even before hearing those words, I knew they were planning their attack. That night, before my mother came home to deliver her bombshell, I went to our backyard, grabbed the hedge clippers and hacked off all of the roses from our rose bush. I hacked off all them - dead or new - it did not matter to me. I dropped the hedge clippers and tore at the rose bush with my hands; I tore at the remaining rose petals. There was blood on my hands from the thorns - and salty water beads on my face.

The roses were gone - I had destroyed their beauty. I had disfigured them and left the bush barren. It was them at my mercy - but it was my blood and tears at their submission. She came home that night, it was then that World War III had ended - she had delivered the final blow, and I was the one left bleeding on the battlefield of torn roses.

"Charlie and I are getting back together."

It hit me like Hiroshima.

This house is still warm, despite how cold I get inside. The flowers are still painted on the wall, the tile is still un-chipped, and the chestnut-colored carpet only has a few stains. I still watch the stars. I feed the stray cats here. I don't grow flowers here, even though I could if I wanted to.

Our family portrait now hangs next to the bathroom. The rose bush is still dead.

But look at it this way, acrobats were made to fall.even if they did grow flowers.