My mother still fuels more than a small portion of my writing despite her passing over forty years ago. Her vivid debacle of a life and the idiosyncrasies that consumed her are revisited over and over again in my mind. Sometimes, it’s as if she never left. Other times, it’s as though she never really existed. Time reverses if I allow myself to mull over my childhood – too many things I can’t let go of and need to. This is the only picture of have of her – taken before I was born near the water front in Toronto. She may have been 25.