She didn’t really like us, she didn’t know us, we were strangers living amongst her world, in order for her to find herself. We were captivated in corners of her dying soul, where air barely flows, and warmth bleeds out. She was continually estranged in her own identity of trying to be perfect. Her own eyes beseeched her. And when she had children she was even more empty and without time to understand why her warmth was gone.