Bent

 

Sometimes it is because of friends–more often it is my family, my children, my grandchildren. A memory can do it or a clouded eye, an averting of the face. Little noted, except perhaps to the mother, the telling wisp of a smile, the brave mask. The aborted dream, the reach that didn’t make it.

…It bends me over and I cry.

Secrets I know. Boulders I see on the trail the young ones will take. Swamps and dark places.

. . . it bends me over and I cry.

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