If Canadian Thanksgiving weekend is about unveiling our fall and winter clothes, for sure Easter weekend is all about airing our spring and summer wardrobe.
What started as a simple spring closet cleaning, turned into, yet, another epiphany! One minute, I was standing in front of the mirrored doors, pulling my wool skirts off the hangers, the next, I was dialling my mother's number in France. Those of you who have been following my blog regularly, know that I haven't been speaking to my mother since Christmas (26 of December, to be exact).
No, it wasn't the sunshine, the spirit of Easter, the filial love or guilt that made me do it. It wasn't brunching in a quaint Iranian restaurant that took me back to my childhood, or the bowl of reminiscences I shared with old friends, either. It could've been the Oscar winning Italian movie, depicting life's worth and worthlessness, but I doubt it.
The culprit is my uncanny resemblance to my mother, and I'm not talking about physical features alone.
Twice a year, year after year, my mother empties and refills two large suitcases with clothes that she hopes to like again, one day. Twice a day, day after day, she cooks healthy meals for herself. And, twenty-four seven, she talks to herself, sending all sorts of different people to the devil, while examining her facial flaws in the mirror.
Today, for a split second, I was my mother. Maybe retirement makes me think of being old, and being old, in turn, makes me behave like her.
In order to like, and cope with the side of me that has started acting like my mother, I had to make peace with the real McCoy.
A few years ago, I got very mad at my younger son for giving me a cushion that read,
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