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Just a month and 4 days earlier, on July 12th my oldest sister came running from the truck after arriving home with mom and dad waving the newspaper. I watched from the kitchen window as she disappeared into the garage. Moments later she bursts forth talking loudly. "Larry is dead!" She must have said it three times as it hit me what she was conveying. No, he's not I said as she opened the paper. But there was a picture of my best friend. He had been killed in a motorcycle crash at 1 AM that Tuesday morning. He had turned 15 on May 15th less than two months earlier.
I snatched the paper and hurried to the middle bathroom to read it in peace. My bedroom didn't have a lock is why the bathroom. The last time I had seen Larry was the afternoon before as he rode his trail 70 through the park on the road behind our house. I felt angry and refused to go to the funeral. I felt in shock maybe and pissed off that he went out with older guys drinking and got on a much larger bike, a Kawasaki KZ 650. I had ridden on the back when that guy got it about 2 weeks before. It was scary fast. I regret not going to his funeral.
Did you know Elvis had two burials?
youtube.com/shorts/ubwkNawufIE?si=LHgaPS3f-fD6UPz_
When I got home I didn't run and I didn't holler. I walked up to my sister and told her that the King was dead. 🎶
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