She
was five years old when I told her that her world was breaking. Her mother
and father were caught within an argument without an ending.
So I was
moving out. And she was crying like I'd never seen her cry before. The world her parents
built for her is being broken by her parents.
It's
twenty-eight years later and I know just what I'm not and what I am and even
know that knowing is a matter of imagination.
It doesn't matter, though. Of all
the places in the world that I've been driven to, that's the only one I wish I
never visited.
Because I know I broke my daughter's heart that day. Although in time, of course, she mended.
For
hearts are not a matter of this world and can't be really broken.
That's why it hurts so much when breaking one.
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