I was 42 years old when my father had passed. My Aunt Lorretta travelled from Springfield, MO to attend the funeral. After the service she had gathered the family up and took pictures. One picture had my brothers, Kenneth and Howard, and myself. Howard was eleven years older than me, the oldest of us, while Kenneth was seven years
older. Within the span of a year and a half when that photo was taken, Kenneth passed away. He was 54 years old. A few months later, my granddaughter, Juanita, would be stillborn. Two years after that, Howard would pass. My sister and I would be the only ones left. Then, in 2013, she would pass away, too. I'm the last one left.
With my parents and siblings gone, I have no one to share my memories with. The younger family members don't care to listen. Once I die, the memories I have go with me. That's why I've written this book: to have my past remembered. I'm not going to bother writing an entire lifetime into this book. This is just a few short stories and
poems I've written. There's nothing to look forward to. This is the last chapter of my life. All my dreams that never came to fruition are fading. I have no desire to love again. This pain and memories stay firmly rooted into my mind like an emotional divorce. It took me to the edge of suicide at one point. The unexpected death of my son, Erick, in
1984 had left me empty, gasping for breath. His death still haunts me. Three months later, my mother passed on New Year's Day. There were more tears and sorrow than happiness and laugher. Instead of making more memories, I've decided to share them.
