Autobiography Stories Novels & Stories

Sophia's POV My mother read the last page first. I'd told this story many times now. In the autobiography. At the grave. On the porch in August with the family gathered and the August light doing what August light did. To Catherine in the sitting room with the rabbit and the fire. I'd told it so many times it had become the story rather than the memory. The version that had been handled enough to be smooth. The edges worn down by use. But on a Tuesday morning in December, sitting at my desk with the fourth edition of the autobiography in my hands, I turned to the last page.

Once upon a time, about three scores ago was my childhood day: a day of blissful pangs and pains; hisses from old ladies who should have praised me of my display of prowess; scolds and spanks from uncles who should have pecked me; warms from my mom's listless embraces which puts me on a pedestal of a brief relief. What about the returned of father from a long journey which threw us into biting hard and munching of an enormous bread? Or the unruly attitudes of me and my fellow black kid-friends of mine which got us kicked at our buts; hard knocks from passers-by which got us wailing home in panic. The peeping through the windows of the rich who lived in our neighborhood. The humming of religi

My ride was already waiting outside. ***** Sitting in my room engrossed in the book I am reading. After the visit to Sarah's house, I got home and no one was home as usual. My parents are very busy people. My dad owned various oil companies in Different countries and of course had to travel from time to time. My mum is a businesswoman. She travelled a lot too. Hopefully, she'd be around tomorrow. Deciding that the book was starting to bore me. I opened the I*******m app and started scrolling through the posts.

A life spent looking backwards misses all the beauty that lies in front of it. Your parents aren’t perfect. You might have realize this. But you’re pretty darn smart. So, like I said before, we have to forgive ourselves or the coulda, woulda, shoulda, fear and anxiety will creep into a crack of our weaknesses, and overcome us. Please know we’re not perfect, and we will never claim to be. Our personal journeys have stories to tell. THAT’S for sure. When it comes time for stories, though, talk to me first… because chances are your father’s are going to be inappropriate. HA!