Posted by: canaryinacoalmine | June 12, 2005

She started it.

I blame it on my mother.

She thinks she’s a Rush Limbaugh Republican . . . she’s not. POOF! Her bubble burst.
She’s not a bigot, she’s worse. When she says I love you, she means it with reckless abandonment,sappy drools and all. She’s a bleeding Liberal in hiding. She’ll deny it with a vengence. If you ask her, she will slam Hillary’s cookie recipe. Her Liberal heart is rooted in her soul and presence. She found that “one thing” Billy Crystal was looking for in City Slickers. It was and is the best kept secret, the treasure at the end of the rainbow. She’ll pay to much and exhaust her retirement fund on trips to Guatemala assisting the needy and poor. She’ll wipe their noses, mend their wounds, and nurse them back to health. She moves with out pause thanking every day for the gifts life has given her. She never questions where they have been. She ignores everything about what you are or who you think you are. She appreciates life more than itself. She’s reckless and piles things on top of each other. Child after child – I mean – who has 5 kids anymore? She may even be a little crazy, she wanted a dozen. Thank-gahd she stopped, have you seen my freckles? They haunt me and spread like an amoeba in the sun. They won’t stop spreading. I blame my mother. Or my mother’s mother, or did the crazy red head gene come from her father’s father? Ancestry. She can’t stop her nature and nurture. She’ll tell you a story about the man who lived in a tree? By the end, I’m convinced you really can live in a tree and make electronics out of twigs to ET PHONE HOME.

He said, right before he broke my heart, “I look at you and envy you; You have people who need you in their life. When you look at people and say, ‘I know’ I can tell you do. You really feel other people’s pain.”

My empathy gland is overactive, it always has been. No drugs can stop its lack of filter. I’ve tried to kill it over and over removing it from my system but, I can’t. I’ve tried to drown it with liquor, the alcohol doesn’t work. It swells and becomes red, tinkering on the verge of exploding. I feel what you feel when your next to me. Your tough, I know, I applaud your big kid attitude. I won’t tell anyone but, I see your weakness. It’s okay, it has to be okay. I can’t allow you to go at it alone. There’s a big bad good world out there. It’s more fun to do it with a friend. Then again, it’s more fun to do it with anyone. Noah put the animals in pairs. I’ll join you, interlacing our fingers with a velvet touch.

I can’t sit back and watch you attempt . . . to cry alone. I’ll cry, for the sake of crying, knowing we’re not crying over a man for once.
Laugh, I will fall to the ground feeling your joy and capturing the snapshot of your smile. Your joy engages me, your discomfort brings tears to my eyes. Kindred souls seeking refuge in emotion. Chuckles and weeping willows. We’ll capture the serenity of the weeping willow releasing buckets, the travesty in lush green, my color. The empathy gland gushes oozing raw and unfiltered.

I can’t help it. I blame it on my mother. She gave it to me and said, “This is the one thing you can’t return. My genes and traits.”

When I see you upset, “we’ve been through this before.”
You nod and unleash your Texas, “It’s not my first rodeo.”
We exhaust it – it’s not about him. It’s about you and your mother.

Let’s lay the blame. Just say it.


Hand me the tissues, it’s all her fault. Freckles and all.


  1. You are such an awesome person because of the empathy gene and the red hair and even the freckles. More people should wish they had what you have.

  2. I so have not seen your freckles. And whose fault is that I ask you? It certainly isn’t your mother’s. Er, well she probably did teach you not to talk to strangers. So mayhaps, it is her fault.

    Empathy is good man. More people need empathy.


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