This poem was original written on 4/17/15.
Witnessing the miracle of life
Conjures memories of my own birth,
Holding my little girl reminds me
Of the woman who used to hold me.
When I think of her, I think of the
Scars that have come to define our lives,
Two cuts that have shaped our family,
And changed the course of our history.
Down her chest, where they tore her open,
Down her belly, where they cut us out,
I wonder how different life would be
If she never went under the knife.
Would we be a happy family?
Would I be anything like myself?
All I know is, nothing has shaped me
As extensively as her two scars.
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