Broken Glass

Posted bymygoldenchildPosted inUncategorized

Lately, when I dream about my son, he is still little; never more than ten years old. My daughter is sometimes an adult, sometimes a child, but my son is always a kid. Like a good sheep dog coaxing his sheep back into the pen, I think my subconscious is nudging me back in time, back before my reality became like broken glass.

Published by mygoldenchild

Thoughts on grief, loss, and death.

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