At the age of dozen I was taken away. Packaged and send off to otherwise life. My prescribed life was over and split into three. My two brothers were sent away too. Away from me, and away from our old childhood raising in rustic Huntersville just an hour and a half(prenominal) west of Orange. It would be another fifty-five years until I see George and a further fifty-eight years until I see my eldest brother Harry, again.
Life in rural Huntersville was unimaginable in my eyes. Riding on the motorbikes, swimming in the lake, driving the tractors, rounding up the cattle and the late nighttime bomb fires Harry, George and I engage to share including our song and saltation sessions and our stories of what nonsense we use to hear. Harry, George and I were not unless brothers but we were mates. Best mates. We always did things in threes, bid that time at the Huntersville Fair where we entered ourselves into the three legged race but kind of of three legs we had four. These were memories that have stuck with me all my life even promptly after our reunion back in 2006. I had miss nearly fifty-eight years of friendship, guidance, love and support from my brothers because of the eradicated tike Protection Office that offers to protect the children of Australia.
The Davis family was brought up by my stupefys father Ken as a firmness of the closings of my mother from Harrys birth and my father originally that from a drug overdose. Harry use to blame himself for mums death sometimes crying himself to sleep but George and I took proper care of him as brother would. Ken was a exhaust hood old bloke sometimes he hit us with his belt, but only on rare occasions when we use to take our mischievous ways too far like the time when George drove the tractor into the water drum. Boy was Ken dotty but looking back at it, made me commend of the love we had for each other. A love for each other that was taken away from us at such a young age and rekindled many years later only as luck.
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