“That is my husband and I’ve come here to bury him and he is with me.” It caused a little commotion but he gave us no trouble and signed it over to me and Uncle Jim and we buried Dennis in the Burns Hill Cemetery. I was thirty-six then and had been with Dennis nearly sixteen years and I’d never functioned without him. I remember walking through the projects with my seven kids, crying—I’d just break out in tears in the middle of the day sometimes—and your sister Helen, she was about nine years old then, she said, “Don’t cry, Ma. Daddy’s up in heaven,” and it just made me cry more. It was a
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