Filling in the Blanks

I have spent most of my life wondering what made me who I am, essentially filling in the blanks. My mother was an only child, and after her death in those rare moments she was spoken of it was in hushed and reverent tones. She must have been a saint or something. There was no one who would or could tell me the truth. This is not to say I was lied to, but the picture painted of her was flat and flawless. She was the perfect friend, daughter, wife and mother. I could never live up to her image. I needed her to be real to find myself in her.

By the time my father remarried I was nine, and probably already pretty much the person I was going to become. I searched for myself in other people. But I was missing a large part of the equation. Sure I have my father’s eyes, and am short like his side of the family; my mother was tall, and I have photographs of her that hint at a resemblance, but I have no idea what she was like. Now there is only one person left who knew her. I ask questions and listen hard to the answers to fill in the blanks, but my mother has been dead for fifty years, and Judy is in her eighties. She tells me my mother was lovely and wonderful, she tells me stories of when my parents first met. I timidly ask if I am like her, but never really get an answer. I don’t know how well Judy knows me.

For most of my life I have felt like I was navigating without a map. It seemed like people with mothers had a guidance system that I was lacking. What would my life have been if she’d lived even a little longer, long enough for me to know her as more than an extension of me? What would she think of me if she knew me now? Would she be amused, appalled, shocked, proud, or some combination? Would I be stronger or smarter? Would I have grown up feeling more sure of myself and my own identity?

I have written before of Julie, my stepmother, my mother for most of my life. She was a maternal presence, I thought of her as my mom, but I didn’t see myself reflected in her. I could see that I didn’t and couldn’t have the same relationship with her that she had with my sisters (her daughters). She loved me, but I wasn’t hers and we both knew it.

The thing about going through a devastating loss is that life continues. With or without my mother I was going to grow up, become an adult, and live my life. You stop briefly, and then time picks you up and carries you forward. You don’t get to stand still, and wait, no one hands you that map.

I have no way of knowing what might have been. I will never know if I walk the way she did, or my voice is like hers. Did she like to cook, or draw, did she sing when she did housework? Did she like spicy food, or dahlias? She never got old, so I don’t know if she would have aged well, or if I will. I cannot regard her to see my future self, instead I must guess, and fill in the blanks.