And a day after my mother died my father marred the 18 year old girl who lived upstairs from us in the apartment building. so she became my step mothe... and she would baby sit me and my brothers when my mother was sick in the hospital. I never knew my real mother the sound of her voice her touch but never the less my dear sweet mother's life did have a purpose. and shortly after my mother's death my father used her life insurance policy to buy a two story house. now it's the year 1959 and were. With it comes a memory that I hate far more than the numbness. Memories of the six months of hell that I put my family through. My dad crying his eyes out as he held me tight again his blue uniform, in a holding cell while I convulsed my way out of an addiction that had robed me of… me. I had promised him. Promised him I would never touch the stuff again. Do promises to a dead man count more than trying to help someone that’s alive? When I see the blood crusted at her nose and the deep black. More

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