My beautiful friend lay chatting to me, her green eyes bright with the hope of things to come, and I could not help thinking of those other women, in other hospital beds whose lives had been altered that morning. Lives that were now in the hands of doctors and operating theatres, destiny and prayer.
I wanted to go to these women, moving from room to room, offering them my love and my unshakable sense, that everything will be ok...in the end.
It's a funny thing that. The need to share pain with others. Where I can, I avoid it. Choosing instead, to elude the seduction of shared wounds. When my daughter, Tiffany died, the walking wounded all found their way to my door. They came alone, or in groups, looking to swell their ranks! And even now, almost twelve years later, they will seek you out at a dinner party, and lay their wounds out for you, like a deck of cards waiting to be played.
Over time a person can become the wound, that was meant to set them free.
Sometimes, if you lucky, you find a good place to share the pain. And the many ways to heal it.
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