Despite the hair falling out,
rubbed thin from countless years,
and the scars from a hundred surgeries,
none well-healed or invisible,
she's the first to be hugged.
She treasures her scars,
rushes into the hands
that lead to her end,
because that's where she finds
her soul--made from the pieces
of soul that children give her
as they grow. Already she has
much of mine, seeds planted;
they'll add theirs and by the
time she's laid to rest in the
wastebasket, she'll have
a soul like no other's, built
from the seeds of every heart
poured into hers.
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