I stood there in the state of shock. I couldn’t

comprehend what I saw. I know I’m in a cemetery but I don’t remember how I got here.

The last thing I do remember was driving to work and I remember the screech of

tires, the dreadful sound of metal on metal,and then a bright blinding light.

That was the last thing I remember, until now.

Now I’m in a cemetery, standing in front of a tombstone and the name

chiseled on it is my name.

Linda Scott

*****

Lou was raised in an orphanage and like most orphans, she always wondered who her parents were.  When she got older she tried to find out who they were, but the Orphanages were not allowed under the law to give that information to anyone.  When she was 30 years old she found out that that law had changed. The Orphanages now could release the information to any children who requested it.

At age 29 she found out her real name, her parents names, her birthdate and her nationality.  Much to her surprise she found out that she was not French.
She was Italian and her parents emigrated from Italy to the United States as teenagers.  No wonder she loved cooking Spaghetti sauce!

It took awhile, but after a long search she found out that they were both deceased at a young age and buried in an old paupers cemetery outside of New York City.  As soon as she could afford the money for the trip, Lou flew to New York City and went to the cemetery.  She walked all through the graveyard.  It was in disarray, filled with weeds, a dying trees and old tombstones.  She walked all around the graveyard and toward the back found an old crumbling tombstone with a barely legible name and date on it.  Kneeling down she read the name, Francisco Nicosia    1898 – 1916.

Leaning over it she put her arms around the tombstone and wept.

“Hi dad, it’s me.”

Lou never did find her mother.

Jean Dunstan