nine years.

I was 15 the first time I experienced my first death of a loved one, He was my grandfather. My fathers father, a great man who loved his family with his whole heart and treated us granddaughters like queens. Those 9 years have since taken with them my Father, Grandmother and Sister. These 9 years have changed me, taken so much hope, and love and at times have left me feeling like nothing but a shell of what was once a person. Friends have come and gone, a Family that were once so tightly bonded has since completely turned against each other, Most of the time I feel like Ive completely lost all hope. But then I remember there love, and know that they are gone. But the love I have for them will always remain, and grow. I will continue to carry them with me, and though often I lose sight of everything and want to bury myself beneath my bed and make it my grave. I will continue to pick myself up, and hold on, Because I know that they have given me the kind of strength that will always remain with me