Friday, May 8, 2009

hurt

Tears press behind my eyeballs, threatening to spill, an ache starts,
the sweetness of that summer, the heat, the indoor coolness, the shadows around the TV,  the skylight over the kitchen sink admitting filtered light.  Drapes were drawn against the burning, searing sun. Awaiting the birth of my floppy cuddlebug son, now 23, tells me he never  felt safe, always felt threatened.  I just turn my head and look the other way. Tears press harder.  Nothing is more painful than the pain of one's children.

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