Weeding the Garden

A poet speaks of a dead
daughter, one that she killed
herself because perhaps she was
unprepared or selfish or some
combination of the two.

Then a pregnant scientist
imagines every possible
malady, desiring constant
reassurance and discussion.

And I, being the rock and
good friend that I am,
give it to her.

But when I return home
I cry while weeding
my garden.

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