Cotton Candy Envelopes

Once a month a pastel envelope falls from the hole in the door. A woosh sound is heard as it floats its way to the floor with a light thud. When I turn over that rectangular package, I see a preprinted label on the front. Something my mother has always been concerned about, no one will understand her. This little Polish lady in black square glasses has been fighting her entire life. From a life in a Communist country to fending through new hurtles in a foreign land. You hear many stories from so many different family members. Why they left the country and why they settled in a place that they did not understand. These mailing labels explain how my mother used her tenacity to continue on when you have no idea what is in front of you.

When I was little, I sat at a large table with lots and lots of adults. My legs swung as I could not reach the floor but all I remember is the noise. Rumble, rumble, rumble; I blocked it out. An alien language seemed to be heard. A muddle of emotion and volume that seemed to hover over the room. Through all that, I could see my mother, smiling. I did not know what she was thinking, nor did I ever think that she was uncomfortable. She made me feel like this was alright. My mother was always there.

In adulthood I learned that things are never what they seem. Things you remember are not always what you thought they were. Some were negative and horrible but others were absolutely wonderful. That is what I will cherish about my mother. I always laugh about the cheese, a family favourite.

When you live in a Communist state, the greater good is more important than anything else. Jobs, food, housing, military are all things that are created for you, no feedback required. My mother tells the story of the tiny little apartment we shared with my grandparents. Firm Communist supporters, they were happy and just wanted to make sure that we were happy. They wanted to make sure that everyone was cared for, not the dirty politics behind the scene. An idealist paradise. Then the cheese came in. Every month you would get a booklet of coupons, this is what you would use to get food. You got a coupon for meat, a coupon for milk and, of course, a coupon for cheese. As a toddler, there was a cheese that I loved and my Mom wanted me to get a treat. Off to the dairy shop she went but when she arrived, there was no cheese. The coupons are worthless if there is no cheese. That was all she needed, stomping home she proclaimed that we are leaving this gosh-darn country and off to America we go. We packed our things and chose to move. She regrets that now The sorrow you see in her eyes when she speaks of her family breaks your heart. Even now, I cannot see my keyboard as tears roll down my cheeks.

Her strength absolutely amazes me. No english, no money and no plan. That is how entered the American system; from Communism to Capitalism is a huge shock. No money for food for all of us, my parents watched me as they could not afford to feed the three of us. They took English lessons and took jobs to put a roof over our heads; probably for me. Like many kids of immigrants, my parents worked hard for me to have a strong future. They also increased their opportunities as well but at a huge sacrifice. My mother never got to say goodbye to family members she adored. This haunts her to this day but I know that they are still with her. She never complains, she never makes you feel uncomfortable, on purpose anyway. But her opinions are strong and her filter gets removed quite often. A trait I have inherited.

There have been many times where people would make fun of her accents. That would anger me but my mother was always polite but made sure that people understood her. It did leave a mark of doubt. That doubt would hover but you would never know it, she would get things done. Her accent now is her character, brash and colourful, my mother in a nutshell.

I am not a poet. I am not a mathematician. What I am is a strong, independent woman thanks to my mother. We understand each other; like her mother before her. Like a string that links us all together, the ladies in our family tree are just so much more then they seem. Like her labels, there is no filter and there is no doubt about what its meant to do. The contents of the envelope are a bonus.