Sunday, March 3, 2013


My mom grew up in a house full of siblings, at least four of them big boys. She often would escape into her beloved books and would find a reclusive spot like the corner of the attic and stay out of everyone's way and commune with her own thoughts. We laugh about how we resist being like our parents, even deny similarities through our teen years. As we mature, we recognize and even sometimes appreciate those traits we find in ourselves that are uncannily like our parents'. It is so with me. Escape is what I yearn for. An attic is what I seek, with a trap door that opens only for me. I am overwhelmed with my anger at our circumstance and the degree of dumbness with which we are now dealing. I scream, but alas there is no attic, no book available. The mess, the pain, the problem is still standing right there, no matter what I say or do, how loud I yell or how compassionate I try and fail to be. There is no one else to fix it.

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