But then I looked at her address. Nancy and Gram must have been neighbors.
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I come from a long line of women who have endured.
Their names fade now from weather-worn stones
their stories dissolve on their decaying lips
voiceless beneath the earth,
survival notched and nicked in their bones
where someone tried to break them.
How she managed to move on
from such unspeakable loss
I will never understand.
A new town
absent the stares
and the whispers of ghosts
and the seven tiny stones
of her babies’ graves
she began again.