No matter how long or how much I try to build her up, encourage her, back her in the extreme, she thinks herself weak.
I have always loved tough women and always imagined them tougher than men. As a general rule, they leave the beating and killing of each of other to those that swagger swinging their Johnsons, while she and her kind are slow to boil, tolerant to a fault, nurturing and making do with whatever cards they have been delt in life.
I fell in love with my first, long ago wife, unseen. I had simply heard a rumor: Her ticket and been pulled from a hat and won the door prize at a political event I attended. When a drunken United States Senator came down to escort her to the prize he said, “Aren’t you a cute young thing.” Her response, “Fuck you, Senator.”
That marriage didn’t last and my current love of these past 40 years would never do such a thing. What she would do was live a life so loyal and supportive of her sons and family that not a stick they could throw, not a cesspit they could wallow in would alter her devotion.
Confronted with a family’s most vile of circumstances: drugs, booze, cancers, and brain-altering surgeries. All bearing years, then decades of such irrational unspeakable motherly abuse that you or anyone you know would have deserted ages ago.
But here she still stands, tall, resolute, in unalterable devotion.
She is the toughest of all that I have known, tougher than me, tougher than you!
Richard Kimball
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