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June 29, 2016
I wonder how many "Sad Mom" poems are written and stuffed in the back of drawers or inside a private journal. Millions! We go about our path, not mentioning that we've been left behind by our son's, our daughters. It feels shameful. Unnatural. There is the self recrimination, over and over until it's clear there's nothing to come from it. How can this person I've known since the very beginning, held and guided and played with, delighted in; how can I mean so little to him? It hurts. I try hard to be happy. Sometimes the effort wears me out.