my mother’s story

It was warm, but not too warm; the perfect temperature to only wear a sweater. I was nine years old; the second youngest out of my sisters. There’s Annette, Pat, me, then Charlene, but Charlene is nine years younger than me so she didn’t go to school with us. We were the only black students…… Continue reading my mother’s story


America — where the streets are literally pavedwith golden mac and cheese from my Grandma’s kitchen.where opportunities grow like apples on trees,just waiting for you to reach up and pick them off,and when you finally do, you take a bite and plant your own.where the songs of each country come togetherto form a new melody…… Continue reading rose