The Truth About Mother

– “Where are you from?,” they ask.  In the check stand.  When out and about anywhere.  In most new settings.  19 years, the accent still there.

– “Sweden,” I answer, knowing very well chances are slim they know remotely where that’s at.  Most often a vague Northern Notion all mixed up with Swiss chocolate, Dutch tulips, or, even more bizarre, a distant German relative on their father’s side they’ve met once.

None of this Swedish at all.

I’ve learned to take no offence.  European pettiness is not appreciated.

“Do you ever miss it?,”  is often another question.

“No,” I answer, “I like it here, and it’s been many years.  This is such a great place to live, and besides, I probably left for a reason.”

It’s easier that way.  Neutral.

One should not traipse around ranting about how they ripped their heart out and abandoned half of themselves when they left their original country.  How bittersweet it was to say Good Bye to family and friends.  To an entire identity.  That’s just silly bleeding.

Lengthy explanations about how much you miss some of it, parts of your self,  think of someone, or something, each day, are better left alone.

It’s easier that way, isn’t it?


The truth about mother is that she, somehow magically, is still there.  In Sweden.  After almost two decades of me creating a life over here.  Still wanting to cook a meal, fix a braid, clean a batch of laundry, and think of something good to bake.

Even if she can’t do any of it any more.

So I go.  Home to say goodbye to mother.  While she still knows who I am.

Matter of fact, I’m already there.

A brief pause in blogging during Swedish adventures.  Love all the readers who keep stopping by.   – Click Follow to hop back on as soon as I’m back!

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