A Rosie Time

This past weekend, I had one of my long lost cousin/sistas in town for a visit. She was present during the most formulative years of my life and thus, she knows from where my most neurotic personality flaws originate.

She knew my father.

I don't often chat about him because we have been estranged for sixteen years and there isn't much reason for him to pop into my mind. Since becoming a parent, I probably understand him a bit better and consequently, on those rare occasions when he enters my thoughts, the overriding emotion is pity because I realize that he was just a product of the messages that he received as a child.

Sometimes I hate him, though.

Truth.

So, when my cousin pulled up in her rental car and opened the door, I was unprepared for the immediate jolt back to my childhood. Rosie most definitely favours that side of the family, as I do. We share a Jay Leno-like chin. She giggled and the sound was as familiar to me as my own voice. It brought memories of our cottage and fried clams, wild blueberries and coarse, blonde sand. It reminded me of a house on the hill with corn fields, tractor rides and endless hours playing in the labyrinth of a basement where every room had a nickname and a purpose.

Over the five days that she visited, we reminisced and filled in the missing details of our adult lives. Sentences began with either, "Do you remember.." or "Tell me about...". We examined each other's children, assigning noses, foreheads, hands and teeth to the different branches of our family. We looked at old, old pictures, in awe of our shared history and unexpectedly, found ourselves quite forgiving from our perch of middle age.

There was one photo of my mum in curlers, pregnant with my brother and wading in the shallow end of a pool. She was looking directly into the camera and she seemed relaxed and happy. Directly across from her stood my father. He was still thin back then, balding, and impossibly young. In the picture, he is turned slightly, his gaze focused on my mother. The way he holds his mouth, with a mixture of contempt and anger, caused a shiver to travel the length of my spine. I recognized that look. I wanted to jump into that frame for a second, grab my mother by the shoulders and tell her to RUN FAR, FAR AWAY!

We all have a path, I suppose.

The weekend passed by in a blur of activity with BBQs, swimming, a day on the lake and one ill-fated visit to the gym, which left Rosie reacquainted with her ass and begging for ibuprofen. We laughed, sometimes riotously, and we discovered that there are things that we have done (like spew in our purses) and continue to do (step away from the Crispy Crunch) simply because we share the same DNA. I'm not kidding. In the great battle of nature versus nurture, we are poster children for strong but undesirable genetic traits. We sat our kids down and told them that because of the blood that coursed through their veins, they would have to be especially careful or they could easily end up homeless in the parking lot of a Tim Horton's Donut drinking rum from a paper bag and licking powdered sugar from their fingers. "Heed our advice darlings. We know whereof we speak," we said.

I'm sure one day, when my children seek therapy in an effort to unravel the dysfunction of their childhood, that particular discussion will figure prominently in the CRAZY THINGS MY MOTHER TOLD US column. Oh well. I still feel good about warning them.

Predictably, our visit with my cousins ended with hugs, kisses and promises to get together again in the near future. As we watched them drive away, I felt a stinging lump form in my throat because no matter how many years pass between visits, family is everything. EVERYTHING.

And the goodbyes never get any easier.