The death of my fathers father.

This man, Leroy, was not my grandfather. He was an evil man all of his life to people, and I never wanted to know him. I wrote of him on my father’s death, it was to be the last time i spoke to him. I went to his funeral in my father’s stead, his own surviving son my uncle didn’t even go. I almost looked at him in the casket and said good. But there was something I noticed. The native American side of him. The lenni lenape. It was undeniable. My father’s family were Pennsylvania Indians. Kind of made me think how neat it was to marry a native and be born one as well. All this time I thought I’d marry a wop. Maybe that’s where all my physical attraction to her comes from. I was slowly putting puzzle pieces together of a long line of drunken, thieving, lying manipulation highly intelligent line of people that were dying off way before their time or ever using their amazing potential. It made me feel blessed to be the only one who has not wasted his life in a bottle, and was even able to do some good works.

I went in alone, no one knew me. I left alone, never to see any of them again. I closed the final debt to my father. I walked out of there even. I walked out of there alone. I walked out of there no longer a Sicilian. I walked out a native American. My family hunted these grounds, farmed them, and died on them. Maybe I should too.