In My Fifth Year

In my fifth year I sit beside my Dad in our car at night.  We have gone out to get something, cigarettes or bread.  We drive quietly, I think it is time we should have rejoined my mother and sister.  Thinking of our room at the tourist court I ask "When are we going home?"  Out of the dark, warmly as a little fire, my dad says "We don't have a home."  I rise up like a butterfly, tumble in the air, and touch back on the carseat, moving through darkness.