Mason Marks

Years later, when her children would trace along the scars on her arms, thighs and stomach with their fingers, she’d tell them they were mason marks. A signature the builders used to identify the parts they worked on. She’d tell them stories of how, years before they were born, she was made of stone and mud, stacked and put together like a puzzle, but one that didn’t fit together quite right; rough edges to sand, cracks to fill. And when that wasn’t enough keep her solid, and upright, she’d be torn down, and they’d start again, from the foundation up.

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