Telling a Story Crying

 

I thought I was holding up emotionally pretty good over my sister’s death until a minister at her church asked did, we have any stories to tell about her.  At first, we couldn’t think of any, then I remembered the time our parents told Frances to keep an eye on me and not let me out of her sight.  I was six years old then and wandered a lot.  The event would be crowded.   The event was at the Confederate Cemetery in Marietta.  All white school children marched there and stabbed a Confederate flag in graves. And I disappeared and Frances, when she realized I was not in eyesight, panicked.  (I wandered back to our home in the Clay Homes and was playing in the front yard when I was found).

When telling this about Frances to the minister I cracked up sobbing.  I had a job trying to finish it.