I don’t have a single memory of my mom. Out of the blue, she walked out of my life. I was merely two years old at the time. To this day, I don’t know if she’s alive out there somewhere. Any discussion of my mom was forbidden while I was growing up. I had so many questions unsettling in my head (and I still do). What was she like? What is her background of her family? What was she thinking when she walked out of the door? Just to name a few. I didn’t get to really find out much about my mom till recently; it was a combination of expensive dna test and a conversation with my aunt. My husband and I met up with my aunt for dinner one night. I remember what I had. Jambalaya. My aunt glanced at me and said, “You remind me so much of your mom.”
It’s pure comedy how you can grow up without a certain someone around and you still wind up being like him or her. I found out my mom was adopted when she was just an infant; she went to foster home after foster home. I had my fair share of experiences in foster homes before my dad got us back (my younger brother and I).
I found it fascinating my mom was always on the move; kind of like me. Granted, I moved around due to my dad being in the army. I can’t say it was pleasant. It would be out of character of me to let people in a home with uncleaned rooms, so I wont do such a thing. Now that I am all grown up (not mentally), I find not having a strong sense of identity a blessing in disguise. I’m not deeply rooted to a certain culture, lifestyle, tradition. I can explore new ground with a clean slate. I’m content with that
I carry my memories in my heart like a suitcase.
I do sometimes wish I knew it would be like to have a mom around, especially in certain elements in my life. Most of the time, though, the idea doesn’t even phase me. It does sadden me that I don’t look more like my mom; she had long dark curly hair, dark eyes, with creamy dark skin. I, however, do have her dark curly hair. Yes, my hair is naturally curly. Don’t let my blow drying skills fool you (or lack thereof). My aunt did also reveal that my mom would talk about her aboriginal roots here and there. I wish I knew more about that information but it will probably remain buried in the ground; like the rest of her secrets. I regret losing that photo I found of her that was buried in the basement for many years. I never got over it — even to this day. I still think about where I left it and why I was so careless.
I at least remind people of my mom. Maybe that’s good enough for me.
Montréal is only two hours away by car from where I used to hang. What’s my excuse for taking so long to finally visit? None. Zip. Nada. It’s rather sad if you think about it, but I at least can now cross it from my list. I already miss the coffee, the market, and the French cuisine. I will make sure to visit Québec City one day. I promise.
