As a mother who has kept journals for over forty years I was shocked and saddened by Terry’s story. My own mother kept journals too and self published them for her children and grandchildren. I was eager to read them but then very disapointed because all I read were descriptions of placesof weather and meals, of events. Where were her thoughts about herself. What was her inner life like? Perhaps that’s all it was. Her life was her husband and her children, her close friends on the farm where I grew up. But I wanted more. I wanted her feelings about things. I wonder if Terry’s mom was telling her,”I don’t have a voice, but you must, for me and for yourself. You tell my story and yours.” I do remember times when I couldn’t put into words what was in my heart, when I felt my words were inadequate for what I felt, that my language was too simple, that I sounded stupid. Maybe looking at that open book with blank pages was just to overwhelming for her. Or maybe they were meant to be a present for Terry all along, blank, for her to fill in. What a puzzle. It is achingly unsolvable.
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