The Problem With Dieing
The Problem With Dieing
When I was a young boy, no more than five years old, I was shot in the head. Even seventy years later, I still remember it quite vividly. I was visiting my Grand mother Eva Groover. It was a cold winter morning. I was sitting on the floor in front of a crackling fire in the kitchen fire place waiting for Grandma to finish cooking breakfast on the pot bellied cast iron stove. The next thing I knew…
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