Nana hit you over the head with a hairbrush.
Your grandpa and cousins “played” with you too.
Gail left you in a different country to raise three kids.
You want me to ease you, both of you. Doula, you into Jesus’ arms.
My special place.
My quiet space.
My cheek on a warm inner tube floating on the quarry pond.
The soft cornstarch dirt between my toes.
A tender heart can still be violent.
Choice, my choice.
The little girl who had the prettiest mommy in the world
The one she was going to save, sends her
Grace.
Words Hurt 