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If life were a boquet of roses, then I would wait for it to wilt. As it is not, I will live my days in sorrow, waiting for the cold abiss of death to come as I spend my days urning for an understanding of family and the compassion that it should have come with. For I am convinced, my own family is nothing but the shatter remains of something I have never experienced. The years it has taken me to realize this are fueled by the actions of a neglecting father and indifferent sisters. Sometimes I feel like I am the only one who cares that death has stretched across us and stolen one I had learned to care for. Their indifference convinces me that they either keep to themselves because they fear the pain that could come or they are simply too caught up in their own lives to care for one used to only neglect.