Now Boarding for Cancun.

Winter in the southeast feels like a trailer park. Watching malnourished animals seeking shelter under the mobile homes to survive another night to not become a meal for the circling vultures. Winter here is too close to the train tracks in the middle of the night while the whistle gives a lonely reverberation through the bare bones of the woods. This season smells like Virginia Slims, a kerosene heater, dead leaves, and dog shit. It’s a car on cinder blocks while men in coveralls just look at it and drink Busch Light. It’s the junkie’s den with broken windows and duct work spilling out from underneath. It’s the rusted mailboxes overflowing with junk mail and overdue bills. Winter here is a thick southern accent made worse by missing teeth. It’s a poorly permed mullet, cheap make-up caked on, and doused with designer imposter perfume. The southeastern winter is working third shift at the mill to provide for a family of five and being laid off because your job went over seas. It’s riding in a beater pickup truck, listening to “My Hometown” by Bruce Springsteen on cassette. This season in this place is your hopes and dreams getting murdered on the street in broad daylight.