My favorite story.

When I was a little kid walking around my back yard on a summer afternoon in south Florida, My grandma would always would tell me the story of how she came over here to America. The story was out of my comprehension level, I was five at the time. My grandma, while knowing this always told me about tough I never took notice on the level of detail and danger she work for the freedom that is America. My grandma is a Cuban through and through, she wears the fact that Fidel Castro
Castro is an evil person like a wrestler would to a gold belt. Her story was kind of like a moral to anything that went wrong with school, friends, anything really that pertains to her moral of “there is always a better tomorrow”. The story affects my daily life at a young age I appreciated the gift that I was born in America. My grandma would always give the story more detail as I matured in age like how was life in Cuba and how she was dirt poor, because of Castro of course. The stories are treasured every day because my Grandma is showing the early forms of dementia and her stories are withering away but I will always remember them.