I've been feeling quiet all day long. All this beautiful day long.
My brother's comment on my post last night has brought so many feelings to my heart. And what I said in my response to him was entirely true. I would like for him to start his own blog. He is a fine writer and a fantastic photographer and it would be wonderful if he would write his own truth and his own history.
This is my blog. Where I write my own heart.
It's not just about my children and my grandchildren and chickens and gardens and the damn weather.
It's my place where I can relate what I remember, what burdens me, what will always burden me.
This whole situation is such a perfect example of what growing up in a dysfunctional family is like.
And right now, I can't say what's in my heart but I can say this- last week my brother sent me 23 pictures from our family when we were children.
And I'm still not recovered from the horrible memories those brought back to me.
It may be as simple as this- those pictures bring him happiness or maybe no exceptional feeling at all. They are simply, to him, images.
But they bring me horror.
And such sadness that I can't even say.
And so it goes.