The journal I write in is a leathery with handmade paper. Crafted so meticulously by a veteran whose wife, upon hearing him say he still felt like killing once he'd come home, signed him up for an art class. There he learned to make things like my journal so he could travel to art fests set up a booth, and tell people like my husband, who wanted to buy it for my birthday, how he came by his skills. In doing so, reminding all the customers that war is never really over for some. And every time I write in it, I wonder if the paper is enough anymore or if he's sitting somewhere, wherever he's from, thinking about killing again. And I can't help but ponder if my freedom is truly worth the loss of one more good man's mind.

Who will mother the motherless? Take under their wing all the feminist's sons? All the forlorn boys who sat watching out windows as their mothers left for work. The lads left to the hands of sitters or were suddenly thrust into a gaggle of other kids finding themselves in the very same predicament. And would "child care" exist if mothers hadn't one day decided they cared more about careers, and rights rather than maternalness? Yes, who will mother all these motherless sons? has long been a question. And now these sons have stumbled ill prepared into the world to become fathers, brothers, husbands, and leaders. Yet make no mistake, they'll have their mothering from you, from me, from her, from any woman they get close enough to. For every soul demand reparations, recompense to fill the void.

Every now and then when we talk I wonder if you think about  How I sold you out, Cowered behind the chair  Crying, covering my ears while she beat you And I could tell from your screams That she was out of control But I was small, and all I could think Was “what can I do?”  So I waited til it was over, And tried to make peace with the fact That there was a secret selfish part inside That was just so relieved it had not been me Yet all these years later, I pray you don’t  See me still there hidden and cowering  But rather along side you doing my best To right any wrongs  And make up for the past If anyone can ever really do so