Personal Narrative-My Father's Death

Many streets of France aren’t what you’d call safe. The one that we were walking through, my hand clasped firmly in my dad’s, was definitely one of the shadiest streets I had ever seen in the eight years I had been alive. Hungry eyes followed my path down the street from gaunt faces with sunken eye sockets, and mangy dogs barked from beneath rusty cars parked haphazardly in broken driveways. I shuddered away from the homeless men and women with palms outstretched at every corner, clutching my dad’s hand even tighter. I remembered what I had read in the news only earlier that day: that homeless drunk man knifing a woman when she refused him change. Although my mother had snatched it quickly from my hands before I could register any gory details,