A Letter to My Little Self By Keri Bowers Circa 1965… The yellow bus squealed to a halt. As the doors flung open, the angry man yelled “I’ve been searching for you; get on this bus right now, Keri!” I do not know why I chose to walk home from kindergarten to my house faraway on Franklin Avenue in Ho…

I look down at my hands and they look like fragile crepe paper. There are lines all around my eyes and silver streaks of hair on my head that contrast to the dark brown that once was dominant. I am tired much of the time. I am weaker than I was before. I feel my limited time for life and I am okay w…