Often, I think of past friendships and the hurt they have caused. Stories such as these could fill volumes of books, but I won’t share them.
As I age, I try to concentrate on my reaction to any action. Hurtful questions rear their ugly heads, but I can only answer them for myself. I cannot give in to a power that snatches me from my imprinted character. I can only realize that their selfish motivations scattered seeds that grew new roses in my garden of life. For this, I can only be grateful because now I know better.