I used to think that my son carried my salvation in his back-pocket like the long lost key to my front door that he found one day while rummaging through the junk drawer for a rubber band to keep his hair out of his face.
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True self-expression was once reserved for times when I’ve needed to save myself, when it was better to be wrong than obliterated.
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We glide beneath the surface of the water, like ancient sea serpents daring only on rare occasions to lift our eyes above the glassy barrier, and then only when we cannot stand the loneliness any longer.
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