Hidden in a toolbox, in the rafters of his four-car garage, was an envelope full of pictures taken by a private detective...They were pictures of a scrawny, boyish looking nine year old with a wide mouth and a tangle of brown hair...Her eyes were oblong and deep set, their color hidden from the camera by the slant of the sun. The angles and planes of her face were oddly beautiful just then, in that moment, frozen on Kodak paper. A hint of the woman she would someday become.
And much like the despairity of the woman who can never bear children, my dreams can never bear fruit. They are the mountains I can never climb.The hurdles I can never leap.The seas I can never cross. The skies I can never look up to.Yet, I adopt them. Unblemished.Guilt-free.
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And much like the despairity of the woman who can never bear children, my dreams can never bear fruit. They are the mountains I can never climb.The hurdles I can never leap.The seas I can never cross. The skies I can never look up to.Yet, I adopt them. Unblemished.Guilt-free.
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