You split yourself to pieces for the kids, a raucous, and yes, blissful undertaking. But I fear it rubs raw the part of you that you should own. Will your small flame still be there, lit, ready to shine through when they're grown?
I am one of many, embarking on this experiment. The idea is to write a short piece of poetic prose about 365 people I have encountered in my life, one entry per day for a year, using approximately the number of words, matching my age. I've stopped, then resumed, but I am resolved to take this to the finish line.
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