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Broken. Hearts. Budgets. Families. Bodies. Promises. Dreams.
Walking by The Bay, my friend and I admire art born of broken things: mosaics, tree chandeliers, a 20-foot goddess sculpture, arms outstretched, offering a hug. Or praying.
In a thicket, we discover a House for Secrets and read:
I never told anyone …
People think …, but I’m really …
How can I go on?
My friend’s brain is broken. (Fucking tumor.) Heart too.
She says, “Let’s paint affirmation cards — like you send me — for here. That people can keep.”
You can be broken and be a healer.
Both can be true.
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