Anjuelle Floyd

The day I married, July 3rd, 1982 stood six years from the day my brother had died. I can only imagine what my mother’s life must have been like during the years that followed.

Instead of having a child, a son at home for three years following the August of 1978 when I left for college, my mother re-entered a house where she would live alone until she died in 1996 at the hospital in Berkeley, California where my husband is on staff.

My mother did not drive me to college. Instead she engaged a former student, one year older than me, and who was a sophomore where I would be attending.

He readily accepted, safely delivered me as he