Everybody is blogging on their mothers lately. Jory started with a post on her mom, Joy, that made me sob.
people have somehow caught on to this woman’s ability to not judge– even in matters concerning me–to listen, and, if you’re meeting her in-person, to feed you.
[After that post, Joy decided to start her own blog]
Then Gillian talked about her mom’s 64th birthday and posted the cutest daughter-mother picture.
My friends from childhood will still ask me how she’s doing, and say how much they liked her. Despite what they were wearing, what colour their hair was, and how much metal was in their faces, she treated them with respect, which is a rare thing for a teenager to receive from a friend’s parent.
Ronni Bennet talks about witnessing the death of her mother.
Even Shelly, who doesn’t seem the sentimental type, wrote about her mom inheriting Shelley’s old Nikon Coolpix 995:
I told her I would write detailed instructions on how to use all the lenses and filters. “Be sure to also write down what kind of film I should use,” she said.
What about my mother?
My mother in February 1959, one year before marrying my father and one year and 10 months before I was born.
My mother has been beaten by life.
My mother lost her father when she was 5 and the World was in War.
My mother was raised by a crazy mother who could not forgive her for the death of her husband.
My mother married my father to escape her family.
My mother was depressed and unhappy when I was born.
My mother didn’t feel good enough to raise a child.
My mother didn’t trust herself and anybody around her.
My mother never learned how to love and be supportive. Nobody did it with her.
My mother had a spark that never had a chance to burn.
I love her but I cannot live close to her.
I miss the person she could have been.
I miss the relationship we could have had.
Mamma, mi manchi.