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The first time my heart broke, I thought back tothe day in my childhood when a piece of glass wentthrough my finger after an ill-fated cartwheel.I was eleven years old.My mother and I were in our bathroom cleaningup the wound. She dribbled peroxide onto the cut.It fizzed and burned; I winced at the pain.It needs to burn so you know it’s healing,she explained.That small exchange during my adolescence helpedme learn to appreciate the pain pulsating from mybroken heart. In spite of the severity of my wound,I knew the healing process had already begun.
