comfort of strangers
The other day I imagined my way into that childhood bedroom
where my 5-year-old self has been waiting for 44 years
for someone to come comfort him, and spent a little time there,
holding his hand and telling him he's beautiful and precious and good,
and that he can come out anytime he wants to, and that the room
will still be there for him to go back into, if he needs to.
where my 5-year-old self has been waiting for 44 years
for someone to come comfort him, and spent a little time there,
holding his hand and telling him he's beautiful and precious and good,
and that he can come out anytime he wants to, and that the room
will still be there for him to go back into, if he needs to.