In 1962 my mother, when she was 12 years old lost her father. When I think of my mother’s trauma I grieve. I am sad for her loss, such loss for a young girl. She wasn’t allowed to go to his funeral. She was made to go to school. All of the ideas and experiences of a father. Stopped. What does she remember? I imagine her holding onto those memories – keeping him alive in her head and heart for as long as she possibly could. Her mother and step-father did not allow photographs of her father to remain on the house.
When I was 12 I lost my mother. Not to death. She remained present but was not present. I removed myself from her. From time to time she changed her appearance. Her physical self and her very self. I wasn’t sure who she was. I thought I would try to find my mother again. To move towards her. As I draw near I fear losing her. Again.