Read, listen to the heart that wrote this piece.
My aunt Georgia had 7 children. Her youngest son, Nathan was born the same month as me.
He was only 6 years old when he was riding his bicycle in front of their house and was hit by a car.
My aunt heard the crash and the screams and she went running out to the road.
But there was nothing she could do. It was too late.
Her youngest child died in her arms.
One week earlier, Nathan had brought home a craft he had made at school. It was a Mother’s day bouquet of flowers he had made out of an egg carton and colored pipe cleaners.
Like all children, he was always bringing home drawings and crafts from school and many found their way into the garbage can.
After his death, my aunt frantically dug through the kitchen garbage can, tears streaming down her face, desperate to find…
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