Our mothers literally build our hearts. From a conglomeration of cells to a beating, breakable organ. Building a heart is no violent act.  My mother built my heart from the safety of her womb. But leave the womb and a mother becomes more. More than a mother, she is a person.  As a person, she carries her own beating heart which has suffered the wear of trauma. Our mothers build our hearts, but ...

Fine lines wrinkle the face I once caressed with tiny hands While being cradled in the security of her armsThe auburn hair I ran my fingers through in the darkness of her bedroomTo chase away the nightmares of her dyingIs now the color of sunshine and honeyHer once soft exterior has been replaced by a hardened exoskeletonA suit of armor pristinely polished by every hardship she has sufferedShe ...