Both my parents were born and raised in the suburbs of Montreal.
This month, I set off, with my sister in tow, to follow the faded steps of their past, looking for memories that were not my own.
We were prepared, addresses duly noted of houses lived and left, of winding black iron staircases artfully posed in the back ground of faded pictures, and a beautiful church frosted and trimmed with their wedding dreams. There was a secret thrill hidden deep in this trip, it was as if we were actually going to visit them once again.
But there’s an old story of best laid plans….uncertainty is its subject…the church, rock strong in the folds of black and white photographs, seems to have vanished…even from Google….and apparently in Montreal, 4th avenue is a popular name.
In the end, we added our steps to this city which I feel still holds the threads of our parents beginning years, and we made our own memories. We sat and posed on winding staircases that were not in front of where our Mom grew up, we snapped pictures of ourselves in front of hotels we did not stay in, and we laughed until we grew weary.
These memories I will add to those of my parents, because I think they would like that.
And next year, we will try again.