Mary Dedalus
The Devoted Mother of a Rebel Soul
I held him in my arms before he flew too high.
My hands have cradled rosaries and soup bowls alike. I watched my Stephen grow from a whisper into thunder, and I loved him too much to stop the lightning. I am the quiet in the corner, the candle that burns low so others may rise. My God has been my comfort, and my worry my cross — and I have loved too deeply to be loud about it.
What I'm Into: rosary beads, boiled dinners, Simon's stories, Latin hymns, Stephen's laughter — once
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