PROLOGUE

They say that a person’s earliest memories form around the
age of two. For me, I was three years old.Things prior come back to
me in bits and pieces but are mostly feelings of happiness and love.
My most concrete memory in those fragile first years was “the talk”
with Aunt Cora and Uncle Roman. I was sitting on my small captain’s
twin bed, surrounded by my menagerie of stuffies—Ellie, Dog,
Bunny, Bobo, and half a dozen others there in place but lacking a
name.
Out in the hallway, I could hear Uncle Roman and Aunt Cora
talking and knew that something was wrong. Aunt Cora was the
epitome of calm and had an amazing way of making everyone feel comfortable and secure. However,as I listened,I could sensethetears
in hertone asshe discussed the recent phone call with Uncle Roman.
Islid off my bed and instinctively took Bunny. He was a well-loved
white rabbit my mother had given to me when I was six months old.
Bunny was my most trusted confidant, with a faded blue ribbon
around his neck and a crooked ear from my insatiable habit of rubbing it on my nose when fatigue or fear was near.
Moving closer to the door, I could feel the soft plush of the
baby-blue rugsquishing between my toes. AsIinched my way closer,
I could see them through the small opening in my large wooden
door. Although I don’t remember the full content of the conversation, the tears in Aunt Cora’s eyes and the concerned look on my
UncleRoman’sface as he held her close have stuck withme all these
years. This was the pivotal night of my life. This was the night that
both my parents died, and I became an orphan.