The horses in the stable went wild; they knew of the coming storm.

The cops came for my mama that day, dragging her away in rusted handcuffs that seemed too tight.

"Don't worry," she told me with a kiss to my forehead.

"I'll get an appeal," she told me.

I didn't know what an appeal was back then and I didn't know now. All I knew was that mama didn't get one.

The cops told me mama was taken for manslaughter. I think they told me the definition, but as a kid the ripe age of 9 and 3 quarters with ADHD, I forgot.

All I knew was that mama was gone. After that, I went through cousins, aunts, uncles, and foster homes like they were underwear.

Three months later, the cops were back again.

Not with mama. They came back with news.

A prison riot. The funeral would be in two days.

What a way to spend your tenth birthday.

And 8 years later, nothing had changed.

Mama lived in the cemetery by our old farm with Meme, Papa, Daddy, and my younger sister June.

And Johnny Jackson was without a family.