Personal Narratives Writer

Morning Pages for the Motherless, Part 5

Photo by Alex Kozlov on Pexels.com

I meet her now on grassy hills with the salt wind whipping around us from the grey-green ocean below. I tell her I forgive her, so I can try to believe it, so I can finally forgive myself. And she stands there before me, as I lay my sorrows at her shimmery-shadowy feet; silent and unreadable while she listens to my pleas, as she watches them float away into the open sky on the curves of the wind. She still has nothing to say. At least this time she listens.

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