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What shall I be called when all remains of me is a memory, upon a rock of a deserted isle? —Julia de Burgos, “Poem for my death”
But me, as a mother? I never wanted that for my girls—to experience that type of violence, because sometimes getting hit like that made you think you didn’t deserve to fucking smile.
Like they always tell us, there is no saint without a past, no sinner without a future.
We were not that kind of family, the type who spoke politely to each other about where and how we were in pain.
