Part 1: The Day My Life Began

I'm going to tell you a story... In my world, I consider it the greatest love story of all time.

I spent so much time away from my childhood. There was no constant in my life going from

once house to another never knowing where I was going to sleep next. It was as if I was a passenger in my own life. Others deciding where I needed to be, needed to live. If I could peel back the layers of each day, I would fill more pages than I could ever fill in this lifetime.

The day my life began was when I went to live with my grandparents...

At first, I didn't know how I was going to be able to relate to people who were so much older than I was. They were like familiar strangers.

       I approached the house and see an array of shrubs and rose bushes along with a China Berry Tree. I open that creaky gate that had a mixture of vines and weeds growing through the chain linked fence. With suitcase in hand I walk up to that screen door that my grandfather made. As I open that front door of that small three bedroom, 1 bathroom house that once housed 9 children and my grandparents; a smell that would haunt me for the rest of my life lingered in the air. It was the smell of my grandmother. She was always applying oil of olay cream to her overworked hands and beautifully wrinkled face. He short, curly silver hair seemed to illuminate her face when she first looked down at me and smiled. That crooked grin instantly melted my heart. I knew in that moment, I was home. Then as if by queue, my grandfather walks in the room and gives me a hug, kisses me on the forehead and says “ Monkey!” in a way only he could. His rough hands took me by the hand to help me with my belongings. He showed me where my room was.

       We passed though the small living room with furniture that was too big for that tiny room. Glass figurines in a corner shelf with a mirror backing. That was my grandmothers collection. Pictures from every grandchild, cousin, niece, nephew, aunt, uncle, neighbor, neighbor's children, mailman... well, you get the picture. They loved pictures. Most of them in frames, adorned the walls and shelves. I would sometimes catch my grandmother staring at pictures as if she was reliving that moment or imagining what that moment was like if she wasn't there for that memory. He favorite picture besides the ones of me, were pictures of my sister Patsy.

       There was one picture in particular that kept magically appearing in different parts of that house. My little sister was wearing blue pajamas and had no front teeth. She had been crying in this picture. Before the picture was taken, my sister had fell out of my father's truck who apparently ran her over with the front passenger's side tire. Horrific I know! I assume my father didn't want that moment to be forgotten. My little sister didn't live with us or even in Texas. She lived with my mom in California. So my grandparents hung on to that memory of her for as long as they could. In their life, they saw my sister a handful of times. They were notorious for giving nicknames. My sisters was “Cherro”, don't ask me why. I don't even know what it means.

        My room was off the kitchen. A bright yellow kitchen, which was home to everything I would use to learn how to cook one day. The kitchen had a huge white, rusted sink, an old gas stove which rubbed up the side of an over sized refrigerator and an old microwave which worked only after being hit on its side a few times. In the heart of that kitchen was a small round table with three chairs that didn't match. I didn't know it then, but that table would be a place where I experienced many first and where so much of my lost family gathered.