Braver souls than I have not.
The loss of self. Persistence of humility.
To grant such a vow is to grant a life, and to take one to the shadows.
For forgiveness is not the sunshine of youthly lessons.
It is the hardness of cracked knuckles on an old withered woman as she rolls her final fold of floured dough.
Forgiveness sentences a shadow that is not seen in the happy rays of day.
The gray is heavy. Invisible.
To give the fore depletes, sucks the strength from the bones, and bends.
A strong soul of the giving type is inside, a gray short bent woman.
Withered.
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