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Prologue
I’m not one for writing, but my Michael seems to think that my life is worth telling. But my life can’t fill up a book unless I include the lives of everyone else involved. I suppose this is where I tell you all about my younger life, where I was born and when. I don’t know that, and nor do I care to; I grew up in a time a place where it didn’t really matter where you had lived before or when you were living there. It was always the here and now. My earliest memory was when I was 6. I can barely remember my father, but more so my mother. Perhaps my father wasn’t in the picture much, but my mother was a very dominant person from what I can remember, perhaps my dad stood in her shadow, somewhat like Michael stands in mine. I would like to believe however that my Michael stands more beside me then hidden. Where ever it is he seems to be very content. I can remember most of my life when I was little and yet I wonder to this day how I ever managed without him.
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