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Wednesday, November 9, 2011


Peacocks aren't meant to be mother hens
Forty-years-old, but you would swear she's sixty and sixteen all at once.
She's got the perfect house, the perfect hair, the perfect family portrait, and the not-so-perfect family.
There's a ring around her insides to keep them from taking up space outside and a few thousand horses in her car's engine for nights when she feels the emptiness of crystal kisses and ice scultpure arm embraces and feels like searching for the whatever-it-was that used to fill her instead when she was a kid.

There's a couple of yorkees she always has in her lap to replace the kids who grew up and moved out and the grandchildren she's not allowed to see because there was a damn good reason her kids grew up and moved out so fast.
But, really, what was she supposed to do?
Her daughter was a dumb slut for having and keeping that baby (no matter how much she'd like to hold and bounce him on her lap now.)
Her older son was useless, addicted to drugs (no matter how much he used to make her laugh when he was little and no matter how many prescription pills she put him on when his grades started slipping.)
Her youngest son was a hideous blob (no matter how much time he sacrificed to help his dad around the house after the surgery and no matter how many treats she used to feed him when he was litte.)
No, it wasn't her fault--her kids had just all been failures.
But, damn it, how she missed them.

ily
~Belinda Sacco

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