I didn’t have much of a family growing up. That’s not to say that I did not have
parents, or a decent number of siblings.
What I mean is that I never felt a real sense of family.
My mother grew up outside the United States, in a
poverty-ridden locale. She was
functionally illiterate when she came to the United States, which limited her
employment prospects. In fact, the only
jobs she ever had while I knew her involved cleaning up after people or
animals. I suppose this contributed
quite a bit to her rage issues, although I have not quite gotten to the point
where I have forgiven her for being emotionally and physically abusive to me. I suppose that does not matter much these days,
since she died this past November. It
had been a number of years since I had seen her, but it still hurts. It’s funny, she never cared much for people,
but she really liked animals. So now
every time I cuddle with my dog or watch one of my cats sitting near an open
window pane, soaking in a warm afternoon breeze, I think of her.
