(A Little) on Family

There is no denying I am my father's child. I see myself in the mirror, & I see him. His blue eyes, the same crinkles around my eyes as his. I see the same Zeimetz features my Minnesotan relatives share: ruddy skin like my grandfather, a stockier build like Grandma had. I am sturdy German stock through & through. But when I look in the mirror, Of one thing I am even more sure:

I am the spitting image of my mother. 

I have her temper,  my mamaw's smile, her penchant for rescuing animals. Though I don't remember her quite as bubbly or optimistic as me, we are good with people. She is like a summer storm, constantly changing as the wind goes. She can be happy one moment, angry the next. She isn't one to show emotions, & yet, she does. My father, my middle sister--they are like the pine trees, roots deeply set, they stand firm, never changing. They are quiet, speaking little but with deep thoughts. 

My mother is not quiet. I am not quiet. We are willow trees, shifting in the breeze. We shed our leaves like our souls laid bare.  I am independent like her. stubborn too, unwilling to accept help even when I need it simply because 'I can do it myself.'

Sometimes it gets me in trouble. Sometimes it helps me survive. 

Of one thing I know for sure: I do not regret one single quality we share. It's made me who I am. 

~LB