The author was a young girl. Her handwriting was beautiful. Every stroke of her pen was a unique work of art, and each word a masterpiece in itself. W...erever that child learned penmanship was not public school.Each letter was signed with her first name only – Cindi with an 'i', and each 'i' was crowned with a sweet, slightly off center, heart. For some reason I was captivated by her precision and devotion to perfect writing.Whoever Cindi was, she deserved to know that the whole family was dead,. “Now, now, young man, you are going through with this and that is final.” I didn’t say another word the entire trip to Uncle Justin’s farm.--------------------------------------------------------------------------------“So you are ten years old today.” My Uncle Justin said to me as he took our coats. He was larger than my father, standing at six foot three. I shivered thinking about him spanking my cousins Kyle and Steve, his two sons. “I guess you know why being ten is important by now,. More

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