Not precisely an airstream, but close enough for a fiction writer

Sophie looked past Helen for a moment, to the room’s one window, and beyond, where Cloris’s silver airstream was parked, shiny as the bottom of a new pan.  “For when we take our cross-country,” Cloris had always said, but Sophie had never seen the airstream travel.  The airstream was rooted in, like a squatting tree.  It had grown, Sophie imagined, silver roots.
(excerpted from Good People, the adult novel in progress)