The Story of Me.

So, my parents divorced on my 6th birthday.

I can still see the brightly colored wrapping paper of the presents in the front seat, and feel the warmth of my mom's breath on my cheek as she buckled me into the back seat.

I didn't know it at the time, but we were heading to my dad's parents, my paternal grandparents' home. They were domestics, and lived on a huge horse farm in Albemarle County, Virginia.

My dad was a cop, and Black, and was always taking extra shifts or longer hours to get ahead. I was practically raised by my grandparents. I can hear my grandfather's voice in my head every time I say the Lord's Prayer he taught me; and it's my grandmother's hands that guide my hands when I'm cooking.

But when my grandmother died after a long, hard fight with liver cancer, my grandfather lost his best friend and partner of over 45 years, and started to slide into dementia. My dad and his 8 siblings didn't have the resources to institutionalize my grandfather, so the decision was made to house my grandfather in the biggest home among them.

I would go visit him, and was saddened by the blue glow of the television washing over his face as he struggled to remember who I was. I was graduating at that time, and had to make a decision--do I move on to college and the rest of my life, or do I help dignify and edify my grandfather at the end of his life?

So, I gave up a full-ride scholarship and stayed to take care of my grandfather until he passed, and joined the Army to get my education.

I'm sure there were moments when you were nodding, or otherwise reacting to what you read, and I'm wondering what it would take for you to just leave a comment, now, ok?