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"Make me a man."
and I meant it
when I said it
to God.
It seemed to me
that if I were not a woman,
were not a mother,
were not female flesh,
I would not hurt.
It seemed to me
that the men around me
didn't cry,
didn't pause,
and went back to work
as usual...
mere days after my child
left for heaven.
They ate their meals,
walked the dog,
mowed the lawn
as usual.
But me...
I couldn't eat.
I couldn't sleep.
I could not
stop the storm
and all it's rain and winds and floods and devastation and it kept raging for days and weeks and months on end.
And one day I looked at the man
I loved the most
and knew the best
(he had paused from his many labors,
and his face was shaded in thought)
and I wished so badly that I was him instead of me.
I hated being a woman,
a mother,
female flesh,
because the curse of my sorrow was too terrible to bear.
But that one time I looked at the man
I loved the most
and knew the best,
the thought came to me,
and the thought was...
"Sometimes
he
wishes
he
could
be
you."
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