the gift of mondays

i've never understood racism. i've never understood how two people don't like each other based on outward appearance. growing up in south florida i was surrounded by people who looked different than me. but i was lucky. the person who raised me never saw the difference. my father didn't see color. he didn't see nationality. he didn't see social standing. he just saw people. plain and simple. black and white. for him there were no gray areas. people were people. period. end of sentence. because he never treated anyone different, my sister and i never grew up thinking there was a separation between any of us. because he never thought twice about helping everyone , my sister and i never grew up thinking anyone was better than anyone else. we were the lucky ones. because our father saw the value in everyone and he instilled that way of living and thinking into our lives and into our hearts. i wrote this poem shortly after high school because i realized early tha

      part of her never wonders         just as part of her never forgets         the last image in a six year old's mind         of a mother she never got to know         25 years later         as her own life approaches the last          of her mother's days         she remembers the little things         and mentally prepares to die.         after all...one doesn't outlive their mother do they?             ( taken from my journal - written a few years before i turned 37) --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- may 2, 1975 at 2:30 in the morning, my mom took her last breath. thirty-six years ago today, at the age of 37, in a one bedroom apartment in lantana, florida, patricia ann foley laquay died in her sleep. i was six years old. my sister was seven. i didn't understand at the time what death was of course. to me death meant someone would be gone for awhile but they'd be back. at six years old i didn't under