As I looked over my shoulder, I saw all of my memories pass me by. The good and bad just slipped through my hands and was carried away by the strong breeze. I bent down and turned around, unsure if I could go through with it all. Even though it had ruined my life initially, I was still skeptical about if I should leave or not. But as soon as I asked myself that question, a shiver came over me like a windy day in the middle of winter. I turned around and started to walk away from it all, tying hard not to turn back. Something in me wanted to stay; not for me, but for something or someone. I just tried to push it out of my mind.
I was pretty happy, compared to the other colored woman who lived in the late eighteen-hundreds. I had high cheek bones that outlined my thin face and these unusually large brown eyes that were the color of my skin.
Granpa
"Grampa" Simpson
los chikos y las papas....I looked a lot like my Mama with a long neck and a lean body, but my face resembled my Papa's.
It was a beautiful Tuesday morning in Nebraska. My Papa was working in the cotton field and my mama was in the yard doing the laundry. "Today is my 15th birthday," I told myself with an inch of triumph. I decided that I would go out in the fields and help my Papa load the cotton sacks onto the carriage.
As I was walking down the dusty run-down road, my eyes very courously caught sight of a wagon that was approaching. I stopped and waited until I could see who was coming . To my surprise, it was Scott Jackson. Scott is the son of the richest fellow in town.