How do I write the world?
I am a woman of many words but in this, I am without.
So I’ll tell you about crawling into her bed on early Sunday mornings and begging for stories about Antigonish and the always fabled east coast.
Edmonton, Calgary, Toronto.
Ottawa. Ottawa and the Minto hotel.
I needed to know these places. These homes that housed my momma, the indomitable supermomma, a women whom I loved more than anything and anyone in the entire world. So much so that I often wondered how – how could my little heart hold this much?
I craved her memories – needed to know, needed to see, needed to feel these things my momma had known, seen, felt – devoured every word, curled up perfectly, in a momma-sized crook, each piece of part of her life nourishing and sustaining, brightening the beat of my heart.
She brought me to life. She brought me to life.
I cannot find the words, because I am my mother. And she is me.
I am the knowledge of a world and a love manifestly bigger than my own single self.
It echoes in the hollows of my bones.
Momma, momma, momma.
I feel her everywhere. I see her everywhere. She’s in my fingertips when I write. She’s in my laugh with friends. She in the tree dancing in the wind outside of my home.
Tell me about Suzan.
Tell me about blueberry picking with Marilyn. Tell me about the dances and camping trips with the MacFarlanes. Tell me about the boys you liked and about the girlfriends you loved more.
Tell me. Tell me. Tell me.