Jill M Kersey
As a child I watched my Mom type for what seemed to be months. Through numerous strands of type writer ribbon, tiny bottles of dried up white out, utterly late nights, and countless paper bundles, my Mom finally finished her life's ambition and eagerly shipped each and every collectively written page of it to several publishers. Day by day, week by week, my sisters and I raced to the mailbox with great anticipation as to what would be awaiting us; would it be a book, with our Momís name on the cover? As heartbreak would have it, the one book my Mom wrote was never published; she was simply more...