Years flew by and tears drew channels from my eyes. All to give and nothing gained; so far from the early days. Perfect I was not. I know what tragedy I have wrought. I reacted in reaction to deaths and suffering; pulling away and pretending was your way of comforting. So often times I attempted to be seen as me and not what life had made of the. Rejected and left alone; alone I found solace in silence like stone. Every once in awhile a spark of hope would perhaps draw me forth; in the end you crushed with force. Why they do ask did you spend sixteen years in a life of brittle glass? Myself I can only ponder, I gave it all; my soul it seems still wanders. Whilst there was life that survived, the number that did not, reached five. I again wonder how this never hindered but only seemed to make you farther. I wish in soul and it weeps in sorrow; why was I allowed to suffer only and blame for mistakes placed firmly, upon shoulders that attempted Atlas's feat but dropped the ball, so to speak. I only ask why was I blamed and deserted to undergo and deteriorate during episodes where man and wife should face their strife? If we had gone through and grieved our daughter and her brothers; if other family had left us as the couple we should have been. Would we have survived the end? Perfect I was not, years went by, and tears became inner blame. I destroyed me in many ways to ease both physical and emotional wounds that fester till this day. Still to this day; you allow this pain and seem to make it grow. Did the deaths and my near death not pay my toll? Some god grant me the ability to make sixteen just blend and allow the bleeding to mend. Dues were overdue and paid in spaids; perhaps the win will be; I really will not care if you breathe. Sixteen... sixteen