i have a rad mom.  we had difficult times when i was growing up, but now we understand each other quite well and get along famously.   she is tough, loving & endlessly supportive.  i’m more like her than i care to admit; last time i was home, my step-cousin sighed, you’re just like your mom!, and i know it wasn’t exactly meant as a compliment, and that’s okay.   i’d rather be a weirdo like my mom than fit in with the rest of the small-town rednecks!

a couple days ago,  i realised how much my mom’s dreaminess rubbed off on me.  when my brother and i were young, our mom was constantly taking us out to explore graveyards.  she’d always make up stories about the people buried in them.  ‘i wonder what happened to make all four of these kids die on one day! i bet they were out on a lake and the boat capsized’.   when i was wandering around the graveyards here in reykjavik and the other day in thingvellir, i found myself doing the same thing…

i have this really potent memory that describes my mom: we were driving along the northern prairies near peace river, and in the middle of all these fields there was an abandoned farmhouse.  my mom said,  ‘old farmhouses like that always make me sad.  i picture some woman watching out the window every day, waiting for her man to come home from war, but he never returned.’

my mom is wistful, sentimental, loving, silly, creative, with a hilarious sense of dry, sarcastic, dark humour that i inherited.  she is a great gardener.  she generally gives me great advice.   she instilled an unshakeable love of reading and kitchen-dancing in me.   i’m grateful to have her as my parent!! <3<3<3


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