I can not:
match shoes to bag
make small talk
say goodbye
show interest
at baby showers

I can not stop:
looking back
pushing away
keeping secrets
being late
trying too hard
it doesn’t matter

I can:
laugh in spite of myself
(most often at myself)
be honest
be happy
be vulnerable
see love and loss
without fear

– – – – – – – – – – –

There are days when I feel like I’m writing the same blog post, over and over, but with different words. And I wonder if you all notice?


(Blogging as free therapy)

There’s some tangential relationship here to this post, I think.

What has me thinking about my mom tonight, some thirty years later, I’m not sure. Probably it has to do with this lady I work with; there’s something about her and the way she carries herself in the hallway at the office. There’s times when I catch sight of her; really, it’s the sound of her shoes that reminds me of my mother – something inexplicable and familiar.


15 thoughts on “Legacies”

  1. Even if you do feel like you are writing the same blog post–so what? I feel that way too at times, but then I remember–we humans turn a truth over and over in our hands, looking at it, puzzling, waiting for it to catch light, or maybe just waiting for it to feel comfortable in our handling.
    I love your “poem”–what a great way to explore what you can, cannot and cannot stop doing.
    I remember your post on your mother (with that great photo of her–what a beautiful woman!).
    I also remember the ache I felt for you on first reading–how tough to lose your mother when you were so young.
    Even though I was much older when my mother died–that tugging wish, wish that “she” were here–holds for me too.
    HUGS being sent your way!

  2. Great post. I have never thought you were writing the same thing over and over. In fact, I kind of like the diversity of subjects you write about. Those are good things to have in your “I can” list. Especially the ability to laugh at ourselves. That’s one I’ve got to work on for myself sometimes.

  3. I few days ago, Rocky Mountain Girl wanted to say thank you to her readers, and she gave us a hug. She said we should pass it on to anyone we felt needed it. So, please go to my blog. Go way down the sidebar. Right under the picture of Cape May Light, you’ll find a hug for you.

  4. Susan,

    You are:
    and a great writer.
    And you love!

    Both your parents passed wonderful gifts on to you. (Cursing when making a pie crust. Check.) But as Susan said, “We define ourselves.”

    I look forward to meeting you. Hope to in Cape May, if family needs don’t mount up too high. Your writing is rich and diverse, and all great writers revisit common themes, right?

    Wayne, PA

  5. Thoughtful and lovely poem. Perhaps we should all create one like it.

    Blogging is indeed free therapy for many. I haven’t reached that point yet…still cling to the rather impersonal and concrete. Maybe one day, I will be able to freely share my thoughts.

  6. I mean LAURA!

    LOL. I was trying to keep Susan’s name in my head to write in the comments. Oh my, sorry. Wow, I feel like a twit.

    Wayne, PA

  7. And we come back because

    You can:
    laugh in spite of myself
    (most often at myself)
    be honest
    be happy
    be vulnerable
    see love and loss
    without fear

    which inspires us to do the same.

  8. When Bunny Lady sees my posts she thinks I NEED therapy … But what the hey … it was HER wanted all these rabbits.

    It is not possible to know what it must be like to have lost a mother at age 11 unless you did …

  9. My two cents:
    It seems that you are trying to find the “woman” in you, by seeing all the stereotypical female things you think you can’t do.
    Are you really bothered by these supposedly voids? Or is it just missing Mom?

    In my not-so-humble opinion, I think you are a fun, sweet, slightly crazy lady. All the stuff I like in a person.

  10. I found the confessions on the middle column interesting-Not being interested in Baby Showers struck me as humorous.

    Many great writers hit on the same themes in different ways.-

  11. Sekhar: Thanks.

    KGMom: That’s almot exactly what I feel like I do with writing sometimes.

    (Sometimes I just play with words too, to see how they feel.)

    Any sort of aching is long past, I think, tho I do remember those days as a young teen when I thought I would never be able to cry enough for all that I thought I was missing.

    Cedrorum: Thanks for saying so. I could have written a much longer “can” list – maybe in my next ressurection of this post.


    Jayne: Yeah, we are in one form or another.


    Bobbie: Thanks so much for the hug. It felt really nice.

    Heather: Thanks. (No worries! I knew what you meant!)

    I think you’re right – I’m very much the person I was meant to be.

    (that sounds really goofy, but…)

    I’m looking forward to Cape May, too, and hope things will work out so that you can go. I’ve been meaning to send you an email to check how your DD is doing.

    NCMountainWoman: I think it’s probably most important to share at the level you’re we’re comfortable with. I one reads close enough, there’s enough of that personal light that shines through in any post, I think.

    DivaKitty: Thanks… that’s really sweet of you to say.

    Rabbit’s Guy: That sounds like a familiar line (apply it to the dog instead of the rabbits tho.)


    Susan: Um… (insert attempt at saying something really snarky).

    Now, I read a book on this once


    that said that lots of times when kids lose a parent early, they go on to


    Nevermind. I just really really wish I knew how to sew.


    Larry: You made my day with that, I think.

    (You won’t understand that at all, but…)


  12. Laura,

    Now that I’ve been blogging for almost two years, I’m starting to realize I’m repeating myself over and over and over again. But, like you said, it’s free therapy.

    I remember that post about your Mom. Because of her, I admire and love your honesty. She must have been a wonderful woman.

    Two doors down the street, there is a lady in her seventies I came to know. She walked her dog often. She looked much like my Mom and talked like her, also, with some sort of mid-western drawl. She moved away two weeks ago! I miss her but hardly knew her! Weird.


  13. Mary: Honestly, some nights I sit here just to see what bubbles to the surface. I think in almost 3 years at this, I’m realizing that being here, trying, is the most important part. Most often it’s crap that bubbles up, but sometimes there’s something that feels really nice and true. I love when that happens!

    That post about my mom is probably my favorite of all that I’ve written because I was laughing through every minute of the writing.

    (That laughter is the real therapy, I think.)

    The story of your neighbor reminds me of my mother’s sister – I almost can’t stand to be around her because she looks and sounds and acts so much like my mother – it’s creepy!

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