Ragamuffin-Personal Narrative

Ragamuffin

She could not have been much more than four, this dirty little waif with big blue eyes; eyes that shined brightly as she walked toward our back porch. It was early, barely past sunrise. My parents had walked out into the field’s just moments before. As I sit here, I have tried hard to remember the child’s name, but it escapes me. Of course, I was but a child myself back then and some things are hard to remember from so long ago. I want to say it began with an R, Rosie, maybe, although, I am not quite sure. If my mother and father were alive, they would know her name. Maybe it 's best I don 't remember; just thinking of her has brought sadness to my heart and tears to my eyes.

I always wanted a little sister and that day, I

His name was John. Her father’s name was Lonnie and her mother 's name was Imogene.

When we were growing up, we always lived in a house owned by the nurseries, because that was where my father worked. Most of the nurseries had several houses to house workers that had families and needed to be on premise to water the plants, etc.

I first met the Dixon’s when they moved to a small house on the nursery where we lived. I was eight, maybe nine at the time. My father was a landscaper for the nursery and he was the one who took care of the fruit trees. He altered the genetic structure of the plants by grafting two together to make them grow fruit.

I do not know what made me think of that little girl this morning, maybe she is calling out from the grave to have her story told… I know that her mother was locked up in a mental institution for a few weeks, then released to beget and conceive again... even at my young age, I did not see the justice in that.

What was horrible though, was that Imogene, in her sick infested mind, would do it again, not even five years later... Two more little girls would meet the same fate; burned alive, in another house fire only ten miles distance from the