The “curse” as my grandmother referred to it, began in 1930 with my great grandfather Abe (“Papa”).

 

Papa was driving around his neighborhood in Harlem, New York City when a little boy ran out into the street.  Papa’s car hit the little boy just eight-years-old. 

 

It was an accident. As the mother of the eight-year-old boy sat on the street cradling her dying son, she cursed Papa, “may you one day know such grief!”

 

A few years later Abe’s eight-year-old son Malcolm (my grandmother’s youngest brother) drowned in the Hudson River.  It was a freak accident.

 

Years later Abe’s granddaughter, my mother, died. She was twenty-five. It was sudden.  

 

Six years after that my Uncle Marty, my mother’s brother, overdosed on drugs.  He was twenty-seven.

 

So yes, I live(d) among the dead.

 

During family gatherings, the absence of people was evident. 

 

The empty spaces were tangible. Our homes were choked with the departed. I thought it was normal.