The freezing cold, the immoveable.
The thousand mile stare, the pacing, the worrying—
All poured into a hollowed body, unrelenting.
(Warfare begins right here, in the home, where one loves and the other bruises. Where a son loves and a father bruises. You can’t remove those wounds. Mommy can’t wash them off with a warm rag and a plural of kisses. Mommy can’t turn to the past or turn away. Move forward hand in hand, little one. Please, always remember to love again.)
©2012 Jessica Stephenson All Rights Reserved