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I was six when my parents adopted me from an orphanage in Nova Scotia. I was old enough to know how lucky I was but too young to know how much worse it could have been.
The first thing I noticed about the pair was the stock differences between the two. In both appearances in personality they were complete opposites. Mother Diana was calm, collected, and talked enough to feel welcoming, but not enough to feel like you knew anything about her once the conversation was over. Mother Anne was the complete opposite. She was silent, shy even and didn't say much to me beyond a simple hello, communicating only and looks to Mama Diana. I wasn't to learn until about 14 that it was because she resided at the orphanage for a time. Although, "Resided" was a strong term, as it looked more like the Shell shock soldiers got in the Great War.
Anywho, despite the rough greetings we had, their personalities were entirely different from what they'd initially led me to believe. Anne was a vibrant soul as it turned out to be– a kindred spirit as she taught me, and the most gentle in motherly ways. As soon as we got into the place they called home, Green gables, I saw how my mother's truly behaved. They were excitable, loud, and unapologetic about being such. In childhood– and even now– I have always loved every minute of it.
My childhood was glorious, and a family day out could always range from learning my letters or visiting my uncle Cole in Charlottetown, to teaching me how to ride horses through the Abonlea woods or taking an impromptu day out to the mainland. Aunt Minerva– or Minnie-May as I heard mother Diana call her on occasion– would always take me adventuring, often When mama Anne would be struck with the case of melancholy. I had only ever seen this twice, as it was only ever a day long. I had always found ways to entertain myself or I'd have a relative entertain me. Sometimes auntie Delphine would come look after me also, seeing as she didn't live far, but she was often rather busy planning lessons, seeing a she run the class for the younger of the older kids, I was the youngest on the board of trustees.
I loved my mother's dearly, so when I went to college, I didn't go far and I went to their Alma Mater, Queens. Instead of lodging, Uncle Cole insisted I stayed at his house, even when he went to broad for work. I so adored staying there, and I found it endearing even, to walk the halls of a woman who brought my mothers together, in a time where their love didn't even occur to many.
Upon my graduation there were many tearful goodbyes. The most tearful of all low, and the longest buyer long shot fasting several days, was between me and my mother's. For days we spent crying after I announced I was going to England, for what reason I don't even remember anymore, most likely something frivolous. It matters not though, because months after, I'd signed up to be a nurse in the Great war and I gained extensive knowledge, such as how to treat cholera and infection effectively.
Two days after the war ended, November 13th, 1918 I got on the first boat home. And I'm not the slightest bit embarrassed to say, I cried. The minute I stepped back into my childhood home, I fell into my mothers' arms and cried, it was the hardest I have ever cried before and certainly more than I was allowed to cry working near the front line. Even now years later, I have not sobbed as hard as I did that day.
I only planned to stay a year. I did, of course, I kept my word to myself. Eleven months later, I moved to Charlottetown, working for a charity that helps youth that have nowhere to go. I enjoyed my work so, but unfortunately I had to move back after only two years of working with them.
Mama Anne fell ill.
Very ill.
In the early autumn of 1921, when the leaves start to turn orange, Mother, I and all of our close chosen family, buried her. She was 56 and a half, and she was taken by fever, just as Bertha and Walter had before her.
Every year, for twenty-two years after, on the anniversary of her death, I'd take Mother on a picnic at the Lake of Shining Waters. It never felt the same without her, we'd both admit every time we went.
In the late spring of 1943, Mother died of a stroke.
I was staying at home at the time, but I had gone to town to get flour for the bread we were supposed to bake that afternoon.
She was gone by the time I arrived home.
And that, right there, was the hardest I'd cried.