I've never seen a photo of my mother under the age of 18. I've been told my whole life how much I look like her. My face playing catch-up to her ever shifting visage. I assumed the lack of sepia toned photos was due to the 2 separate fires that branded her childhood. No pink swaddled amorphous lumps. No toothy grins. No x-mas mornings. No showing off the way girls do when they're 14 and a cameras is present.
But I was wrong. The truth is no one ever bothered. Her mother's attention rarely extended past the contents of her own wardrobe. It's as though she sprang forth full grown, dressed in mean green army fatigues, with the continental US separating her from her origins. Her umbilical cord stretched from the South side of Chicago to a barrack in Monterey, California.
Created: Jul 09, 2010Document Media