My Father 's Red Chevy Truck

1004 Words Oct 1st, 2015 5 Pages
I recall sitting in the passenger seat of my father’s red chevy truck, listening to old rock music while he worked under the hood. As a five year old, watching my dad playing with all these shiny, metal objects, and having me hand him tools every now and then, was very enjoyable. When he went to prison, my grandmother did her best to keep my younger brother and I in contact with our father. Letters, phone calls, those kept us going. When he got pancreatic cancer and the doctors told us he had no chance of living, those phone calls and letters were no longer enough. At the time I was living with my aunt Wendy, she was under thirty and I lived with her from age seven to ten. My aunt passed away in 2008, that was the most trauma I had ever experienced. A year later, cancer took my father’s life. I basically raised my brother as my mother was a drug addict and alcoholic. My stepdad was released from prison shortly after my biological father passed. From the age of six years old, I cooked, I cleaned, I bought groceries, even as a young child. I went to the store across from our neighborhood in the ghetto of Tacoma to buy food for my mother, little brother along with myself. We moved well over ten times. I used to be amazing in school, then when my father and aunt passed, my vision became blurred. I hit rock bottom. The loss left me feeling like I had fallen between cracks. For a long time, I was depressed, broken, discouraged. I did not always do my homework, I was hardly…

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