Tuesday, May 4, 2010

How Many Times...

Meeting one's biological father after a lifetime of not knowing him is usually a beginning. I found mine to be the opposite, instead. I'm not sure what I expected, but what happened was not it. We met, once. Then he stopped answering or returning my calls. I'm not sure what happened, and had it happened at any other time, I may have been less hurt.

My wounds from her were still ripe. It was as though they had been stretched even further and gouged even deeper. Still, I had faith. I knew I would prevail, with God and my family, my true family, by my side, I would not be taken under again. The darkness may creep upon me, yet it would not overtake me once again for I knew I had caring souls by my side to lean on, to be loved by and to love back. Love is, after all, stronger to me than any evil, any hurt, that I had suffered.

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