There was another life that affected my own as much as anything that happened during my childhood. He was formed out of the dust of the ground and I was made from the ribs of his body. I was completely oblivious to the life of a little boy who was as much me as I was myself.
He was not loved by his parents, but he was provided for. Concurrent to the day of my mother’s funeral, his father called him into his office. The little boy wore a designer baby blue suit tailored to fit him, made of shorts at the bottom to show his knee socks and leather two toned shoes. His bowl haircut and chubby cheeks showed his youth more than his dress or his serious expression. He walked with fear, wishing he had not carried his airplane into his father’s presence. His father leaned forward…
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