Mother

Sometime during the middle of 1933, my grandfather boiled a pot of water to use for his morning shave. His youngest child, a daughter who had yet to take her first steps, reached up and pulled down on the handle. Her shrieks rang out and the months to come were hard and sad for her parents, her eight siblings and for the child herself. Over time, the fingers of her right hand healed in a closed position. Her brothers and sisters mused that my grandad often petted or favored her, not only because she was the last of his nine … Read more…