She stands in the dry hot cemetery, husband and 2 year old clinging to her skirts, she is miserable her huge tummy filled with an angry baby soon to be born I am the angry one. Her heart broken, the tiny little box contains her baby boy not yet a year old. He was very sick and my father and mother were unable to save him from a terrible infection that caused his skin behind ears to split and run infection. After his death her anger grew fed by strangers judging her on her beliefs and poverty. The mortician was called out to the tiny town to prepare her baby for burial and he was brutal taking her tiny baby then roughly putting him into a suitcase throwing it over his shoulder and walking off, she felt his disdain for all she was.
I was born soon after, a sickly baby with unformed nails and lashes, seeming to be inflicted with the same disease of my brother whom left before I arrived.
I grew up with constant illnesses, by the timer I was "placed" by a husband I could only see myself as ugly and deformed, I could not imagine anyone wanting me.
Now over sixty I still can't look in a mirror and have no use for makeup, my 9 sisters were in my eyes all beautiful, my favorite married my husband five years later.
Although I have not often felt human I do not regret my life, for awhile with the young man I married I believed in god and my own beauty, also I have children that fill my life with purpose, just watching them becoming educated and my grand children living lives that lets them live happy and free, having no comprehension of words like polygamy, or sister wives, never being touched by the violence of parents lives.






My families generations were polygamists, this group believed in filling the world with believers thus a women's most important job was procreation, she was especially important above even other wives if she produced sons, would increase a mans kingdom, he really needed only three wives but a dozen sons put him on a path to being god.
Dad when young and starting out married mom first but had at least two young women ready to join the family. He was drafted and after coming home was a much changed young man, he carried scars and years later explained as well as he could what war was. He talked of children starving and of giving native women shirts because they wore only grass skirts. He was shocked to see them wearing shirts with holes cut out for breasts to be exposed.
After coming home he became a lumberjack, being gone for weeks, coming home to our tiny cabin. He lost his planned way of life when he died, coming back to an unfamiliar world.