Irrationally, she reacted to the inconsistencies of disparate memories of her youth.
She chose to remember a more lively, sweeter existence than there actually existed.
She wished only to see the peaks that were her happiest days.
She blotted out the real life decrepitude.
More is the pity.
When she was younger, all was well, her mother told her so.
Then tragically, or so she thought, death defined her.
Death of a parent, so young they said, was tempered by tears she forgot to shed.
They wondered why, so did she, and that was the mystery.
She is unfeeling, they cried.
She is uncaring, they sighed.
She is young, they decide.
Memory, will reside, in a heart full of question.
It was many years later, that she finally believed.
The truth she remembered, was wrong and ill conceived.
Battered and abused, used and tossed aside.
She had not realize she was glad when he died.
The nights no longer haunt her.
The daylight no longer frightens.
The moon no longer whispers.
The sun…it now enlightens.
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