Everything, Nothing, and I'm a Middle Child

The other night, we were over at the Ishikawas. Mark was enjoying various board games and I hung out and watched a movie [The Castle - absolutely hysterical]. We brought spinach lasagna with us as a contribution to dinner. Apparently, Amelia had been seriously craving lasagna, so she was pretty enthusiastic about the lasagna, as were others. It made me feel pretty good. And then I said the magic words, "it's my mother's recipe".

It's the little things. Months back, my mother told us to get any 'end of life' issues out of the way now, while everyone is still feeling well and healthy. At the time, I thought, "I don't have any unresolved issues and secrets." I couldn't think of anything. What I am realizing is that there are things that I want my mother to know. I want her to know what I will remember about her, what she has meant to me and done for me. One of my friends, whose mother has passed away, was talking about how he can't always remember her before the cancer. I feel like by telling my mother what I will remember, and asking her what she wants me to remember, maybe I can hold on to these memories differently.

Problem is, now that I've thought of this, so much triggers something that I feel I should tell her. Like the lasagna. It's her recipe, and every single time I make it, no matter where she got the recipe herself, I will think of her - as I do now. It's the same with knitting, which then extends into every form of artwork I dabble in, as she is my creative source. She taught me not just how to knit, but the value of art and participating in art.

My problem isn't where to start. It's that it has no end. Maman, I can tell you what I will remember, but I will continuously have amendments. And so I keep putting it off, until I 'have the time to sit down and really reflect', which of course is the danger.

I guess this is my start, and now you know I'm thinking about it.