Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Etymology: New Latin, from Greek nostos return home + New Latin -algia; akin to Greek neisthai to return, Old English genesan to survive, Sanskrit nasate he approaches.
a wistful or excessively sentimental yearning for return to or of some past period or irrecoverable condition; also : something that evokes nostalgia

I regret a few things from when I was a child. Granted, I didn't know any better and can hardly blame myself, but in hindsight I wish I had been a bit different.

What with my sisters being ten and eight years older than me, I can hardly attest to what their youth must have been like, or what their childlike mannerisms were. But I remember my own. I was always such a tomboy. I'd ride my bike, play with the boys and essentially run around only stopping to watch Power Rangers and, I'll admit, My Little Pony. My mom would chase me around trying to get me to wear ridiculous frilly little white dresses that were without a doubt older than me. One of my mom's favorite stories is of when we went visiting family in Mexico where they inevitably have numerous portraits of each and every one of us, and when I came across one of my eldest sister Yvette I exclaimed, "Why is she wearing my dress!" To which all the grown-ups laughed at my naivety.

I wish I'd let her dress me up more often and get the joy of seeing her youngest little girl frolick in a frock.

I fondly remember my mother dressing me up in a much-too-big green silky gown that I adored and who knows where I got it from, with my long hair that I would always accidentally sit on or get caught on a chair (this happened often at school with those poorly constructed plastic and metal chairs with screws sticking out at every odd end), and just a teeny bit of make-up. I always hated the stuff at a young age, never did I think I would end up with such a strong reliance on it. She'd dress me up like her own life-sized doll and stand me up just so, positioning me right in front of the window with our lacy curtains as the sun was setting and photograph me.

I never did see what came out of those pictures. I don't think I ever even asked. I wouldn't even begin to explain why I thought of this as I lay here on my couch, inevitably sweating from the heat while the cooler hums in the corner, trying desperately to sleep.

But I oftentimes think about my mother's past life before me and my sisters and my father, her husband. She sometimes mentions tidbits of what her life once was and I grasp at it trying to get a better understanding of this woman whom to me is only mother but in reality is so much more.

She's worked odd factory jobs, she received some sort of degree for secretarial work and she knows shorthand; she even keeps a diary in it! I wonder what odd things are written in there.



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