Scrapper

I want to hold her in my hands and look at her face.  My eyes scroll over the pictures that haven’t moved from the self-adhesive plastic covered pages for years. I am looking for her.  As I turn the page, I take her in and notice a tightening in my stomach. “She’s a pistol,” I…

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The Arms of Safety

The arms of my oversized chocolate brown chair hold my tired body as I bring the face of my discontented daughter towards me. Her quivering lips latch on and her squawks slow to a grave whimper as she suckles the milk from my breast with a sweet hum of contentment. Oxytocin forges through my body…

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Broken Heart Healing

My five-year-old fingers pulled the red crayon from the box. I placed it in the middle of the paper, made a curving line upward and around to a diagonal line downward. I came back to the dot in the center and made a symmetrical figure, a picture of a perfect heart. My heart was created…

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