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Mother
January 31, 2014
Your head aches from scolding
Your shoulders broken from holding
The weight of all five
Of the bees in your hive
Your throat dry from raising your voice
I understand now that you didn’t have a choice
Your eyes soaked with tears
And I had no idea for all those years
Now you’re old, not sick, not dying
Yet somehow, I think I’ll be the one crying.
© Sarah C., Great Falls, VA
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