A pond is not just a pond, even if the cattle don’t keep its bottom packed tightly enough to hold water, even if brush fills its boundaries until nobody knows it was ever even there, nobody but you. It lives on, just as we all hope to do, in the memories of those who knew it best.
I’ll also never enjoy the phrase “domestic goddess,” but that’s a whole other column.
But I’m not sure I was made for this type of work. I mean, I don’t necessarily care I’ve had stacks of magazines on the end table for months and every month the stack just keeps growing. I keep meaning to go through them and get rid of the ones I don’t need — probably all of them — but I don’t ever seem to have the time. Or the desire.
They can be of any race, ethnicity, religion, educational background or socio-economic status. They can be married, single, divorced, heterosexual, bisexual, homosexual, young or old. I am talking about the deep, dark profile of a domestic violence victim. You see the bumps and bruises. The verbal, mental and sexual abuse can attack anyone.