I never even talked about Cheryl much with “the girl who came after,” and – I don’t know why the fuck I did this – what little I did say was not true. I don’t remember what cockamamie story I told K the few times that she asked about the girl I had left behind, but I can tell you that I did not tell her about the pink sweater, or that I had cried myself to sleep three nights in a row before starting school at Tropical Elementary on Monday, November 13, 1972.
Auburn hair, loose, brushed Past fair shoulders gently spills Catches morning’s light
Prologue: The Fragility of Memory One of the things that bother me about the nature of memories is how fragile, how unreliable, and woefully imperfect they are. Take, for example, my memories about an event that occurred when I was 20 years old – my last day as a high school student at South MiamiContinue reading “Tempus Fugit: Remembering Cheryl T. – 50 Years Later, Part the First”