This is the part that always hurts to write.
But how can I not when this is my story just as much as it is my mother’s?
This is what it is to love something sharp,
to love the woman who built you
even if she didn’t do it in all the right ways,
even if I have to remind myself she doesn’t have to like me.
Even if the house is still burning on the street I grew up on,
she is the street I grew up on.
What’s your take? Comment below or write a response and submit to us your own point of view or reaction here at the red box, below, which links to our submissions portal.
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