My Mother

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The earliest memory I have of my mother is after she moved in a rehabilitation center by the name of Casa Teresa. She was pregnant with my younger sister, which means I must have been about 10 years old, who grew up to be a pretty great person. She was within walking distance of our house, and would occasionally stop by to spend time with me. My father was always good about letting me spend time with her. He had a close relationship with his mother, who he lost in his early twenties to cancer, so I think he wanted me to have that kind of connection with my mother, in a more lasting sense, if at all possible. I am failing to remember what Casa Teresa looked like, besides the small parking lot in front, or to visualize any of this memory beside my pregnant mother, but, my image of her, then, retains a significant degree of its lucidity.

 

I can remember the first time I met my youngest sister pretty clearly. It was a few days after she and my mother returned from the hospital. I was at my grandmother's house, looking down at my sisters face, smiling, and I remember she used to give us what we'd call the "mad-dog." She would look back at us like she were angry, which would result in our, whoever was watching her, to burst out in laughter (the laughter got us the smile we were looking for).