Transitions. The Difference Between Me and Her

By Deadra Bond

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781682130810

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Transitions:

The Difference Between Me and Her

Unbreakable Bond

Copyright © 2017 Deadra Bond

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2017

ISBN 978-1-68213-080-3 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-68213-081-0 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Forgiven, Not Forgotten

As I open my eyes, everything is a blur.

Sunlight shines in on a vase,

Slightly wilted roses swiveling away.

Metal tools arranged neatly, near

The bed where I lay.

I remember what happened and how,

But still I don’t understand.

The room is cold, the scent so strong.

As I open my eyes, the smell is the same,

And everything again is a blur.

I remember who did it and why.

He didn’t do it on purpose.

Now can I go home, where my mommy is waiting for me?

She needs to know that I am okay.

If not, she will be afraid.

As I open my eyes, the place is the same,

But everything is so different.

Now I can feel pain, rushing through my body,

Throbbing like a beating drum.

I close my eyes, to escape the pain,

The smell, the room, tubes in my nose,

Down my throat, in my arms,

Fear flowing through my veins,

Medical tape, my only life line.

As I open my eyes, calendar pages have turned.

I wait for the pain to subside.

Day after day I count the ticks of the clock.

Finally I am going home, I survived.

First and foremost I thank my heavenly Father for his grace and mercy, for it is through my Lord and Savior that I am.

This book is dedicated to my children, Keashawn, Brittney, Joseph, Dawaun, and Dewayne the youth at St. Vincent’s Boys North (1997) and Girls North (1998–2001), the young men from Holland House (2001–2006).

TRANSITIONS: THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN ME AND HER

Unbreakable Bond

My earliest memory is when I was about three or four years old; we lived in a big green house with white trimming on Fifth and Jane Street, across the street from the neighborhood grocery store. I remember it so vividly because this house held what would be the first place to become a major part of my past. Even as a young child I got an eerie feeling living in this house, maybe because the house was always dark and cold. Even during the scorching heat waves in the summertime (you could fry an egg on the ground), when the sun was beaming down so bright to the point you were blinded when you walked outside. If you were in this house, you would think it was a cold rainy day. It was like we didn’t have windows, because the way the house sat, the sun wasn’t capable of shining the light and warmth inside. The house was so old that the walls and stairwells fought to stay in place. You would hear creepy noises from the foundation cracking constantly. Mice and roaches made their way around the place as if they were part of the family. Their existence didn’t even faze us. It was as normal as the friends that came to visit and never left. We just had to lived it them. This old house had a life of its own and emotions running all up and through it. I think it depended on us to keep its secrets, just as it held on to ours. One thing I know for sure, this house never, ever, felt like a home.

I was a loner because I couldn’t keep up with my older sister and two brothers. One day I had just awakened from a nap in the middle of the day. I was alone in the house. I didn’t know where my mom was, but I knew my siblings were outside playing somewhere nearby, so I took it upon myself to go outside and look for them. They were not around our yard, so I went across the street to see if they were at the store. Two boys possibly six or seven and a girl not much older than me were standing in front of the doorway of the store. They asked me if I had any money. Yeah right! Not only did I not have any money, I had no idea of what money even was. I stood there looking puzzled, and then I said, Ah, ah. I was trying to get past them and go into the store. They wouldn’t let me go inside the store, but what came next was my very first ass-kicking. These three kids beat the snot out of me (literally). I tried to fight back, until I fell and bumped my head on the store’s brick stair stomp, then everything went black. I hoped they would get scared and stop, but they just kept right on beating on me like a couple of pros. My response to the beatdown was to open my mouth and wail so loud it sounded as if a fire engine or police siren was going off, which prompted the store owner to come out and get the kids up off me. These gangsters struck out running. All I could think was, Where are my sister and brothers when I need them? The store owner walked me back across the street. He fussed at me for coming to the store alone in the first place. I really couldn’t comprehend what he was saying due to the pounding in my head, but I got the message loud and clear. I was sore all over, and I had a huge knot on my forehead. Boy, when my brothers got home, they were mad as hell! They wanted to go looking for these kids, but I was in no mood for another beatdown.