After my grandma died about ten years ago, my family's slipped apart and away from each other. We hid and moved houses, schools, jobs, and chose drugs to duct tape ourselves together and make it through a day. Mine happened to be the only one that wasn't narcotic.
By the time I was four, I used to read my crappy soft cover copy of "Black Beauty" by Anna Sewell daily. I internalized everything. The only time I was outgoing was at grandma's. I went there every summer, to Iowa. Where the air is damp, and filled with the sweet smell of wild flowers, fresh cut grasses, and sweet hay about to be harvested. My siblings, cousin, and the rest of the family got together. My blind and deaf grandpa made breakfast every single day and we got up early for it (he was a great cook, and very quiet, I remember). That tiny little house was my life. Me and my cousins and siblings played Sonic on what I believe was the Dreamcast.
But their house burned down (no fatalities) and they had to build...

[ Continued ]