"And that was now her great joy: to say to reality that she didn't need it, that she was no longer dependent on what happens in order to be happy...Each day I choose the truth by which I try to live"
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Family Poem
The slightest touch that smells of lilac
Grows from a garden I call home.
A mother whose love I want to go back to,
My baby steps to her ears watching as I freely roam.
A mother's arms like a lullaby cradling me in a rack.
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