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my mother was killed by an 18-wheeler truck on her way home from an emory & henry football game. the driver had not slept for several days. he was only imprisoned for manslaughter for a few months. if i ever meet him, i will probably kill him. the first thing my father told me, once we'd stopped crying in the driveway beside the house that was momma's house a few hours earlier was how he didn't want me to find the man, hunt him down, hurt him. because my father knows me. this all reminds me, for some reason, of a conversation i had with my ex-girlfriend, jenny, not long before we broke up, as we drove from abingdon, virginia to honaker, virginia. i said i hated 18-wheelers, and she retorted that her father used to drive one, and i said, frankly, i don't care, because anything that dangerous shouldn't be sharing the road with me or anyone i care about. it made her angry, and she didn't talk to me for an hour. yeah. all that. |
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once, not so long ago, my mother asked me, "eric, why don't |
everyday i cry, everyday i remember you momma'. i swear i am trying. . . i swear.
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