My Dad alway said the Past is Prologue

I moved back to Flint, Michigan from NYC on 6/6/86. Shortly after, I dropped a firecracker down my beloved 8th Street Capezio gray cowgirl ankle boots on the Fourth of July. I spent a month in Hurley Hospital's fabulous burn unit recovering from the burn, infection and two skin grafts (first pig skin then a peel off my hind end) on my right foot and ankle.

When I returned to my Dad and Stepmom #2's apartment to finish recuperating, I found my belongings had been searched and one of my eight hand written composition book journals had disappeared. My roommate was one of two step sisters whom I never saw in person again, thank heavens. Sadly, I never got the journal back even though my Dad said he questioned her.

Since that happened, I have always been scared of really keeping a journal again. It changed the course of my life more than any other occurrence I can remember. I learned to do many other things to replace the creative hole left by not writing. Even now that all those people are dead or at least dead to me, I still lament the residual fear of ever sharing my thoughts in writing.

I know I need to forgive and forget. I only hurt myself. 28 years of time is enough to waste. ☮