The Heart Is A Fragile Fist

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Here’s how you know
that the heart is a fragile fist:
(or how my heart stops and shrivels at things like these)

1) While cutting baby Jethro’s fingernails, my yaya took off a chunk of flesh and left a bloody gouge on his thumb. His yelp of pain set my blood to boiling.

2) A friend calls in the middle of the night and says, “I’m returning your husband to you, I can’t work with him anymore.” And will not listen to your explanations that you are no longer responsible for the ex-hubby, that you are happily separated, that you couldn’t care less.

3) That moment of contact: a cellphone punched into the side of your mouth.

4) Handing in my resignation letter at a company I practically helped built from the ground up, ending what, 10 years of a girl’s life.

5) Finding telltale shiny pieces of foil left on the bathroom sink.


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