Isaiah and I wrote to each other, countless letters, silly letters. We would write every day until we had accumulated twenty pages or so then we would mail them and pour over the other"s words. Nothing s****l. Never s****l. Just life, our goals, our dreams, our plans. School and money. He signed every letter “Yours” and I hated it. Just once I wanted him to slip up and write “Love.” He never did.
April of 1999 came and my father had had enough with the house. “Your mother"s house,” he had taken to calling it. Every corner and room reminded him too much of my mother. After four years, they still weren"t divorced despite Jake and Mum having my baby-sister, Rachelle, who would be turning one that year. We moved across town and I recruited as many of my Bohemian friends as I could find. Only
