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As the rain taps down on my window, it's a call I remember. Brings me back to an easier time. I am five. My dad is my hero. My mom sings in the kitchen. I am happy to be alive. And she sings, "Ooh, child. You're gonna do good, child. You're gonna fill this world with light when you grow up."
I grow up. We move to New York City. Our apartment is shitty, but we dress it with warmth and our love. Things get tough. But dad finds work doing dishes. "See, God answers our wishes," says my sister. She points up above.
And I felt I could do anything at all.