Perhaps things have gone awry. Maybe it’s me that got the better of my life. Her memory I thought was real, but the conclusion was just an exhale of dust and chalk. Her good memory is vague, almost absent. Where has the sound of her gone ? Where is the voice?

I remember her heels on linoleum. Calling her cats on arrival. The floor below my bedroom filled with her being home again. The tea warming her cupped hands with legs folded and tucked. The fire place glow and warmth on her face. The eye glasses and needlework, graceful gray bobbed hair. How she aged with ease and not a care.

I knew her buttons and when to push. The laughter and marvel I was in control of. Fanciful purity of a child and mother without any illusion remaining to make one be self conscious of…

I remember her anger and disappointment in my doings and the shame it brought about. Confessions like led. An anchor of weight that could only plummet. Eventually ending with that fixed length of compassion and unconditional love she was never in  lack of.

I remember the instances (two) when I cut her off in mid sentence. With my enveloping hug I held her tight. Both times she was telling me she had cancer. I just hugged her. What else could you do. I always knew when she needed my real physical love. Words are never a lot when we are in abundance of what to say. Adults standing on a stage forgetting their lines when what was matters most is passing them by.

I read her like I knew her for a lifetime. Before I was born and when she was just an only child. Their little girl. The grandfather I never knew anything of. The home she grew up in. Her promise and talent and goodness. She passed it onto her children with her very own reaction of marvel. A look on her face to say hope is all any of us are ever thinking of.

I remember her art and creating. Being by her side. Her little boy by her side in art classes. Both of us sculpting, painting. Drawing. Thinking of the next project and where it would take us. Notebooks full of sketches. The sketch book was magical. Anything could happen and it would always be just fine the way it was. The ease of sketching something. It lacked responsibility and result in a adult world of consequence and being depended on. A paper napkin. Something so hopelessly practical could be turned into something so creative and useless in a way we never cared to think of.

The memory and sight of her in a car. Driving along as I walked by. A wave and our gesture in symbiotic awe. A mother and her boy. A love that only love can employ. Her pride in me being here and of her. Her friends would be smiling at the sight of the two of us. Each of us alike and inside those precious years we were shared. Life granted us time before urgency became a passage – a destiny to pull us together.

Our one last hurrah. One last chance. Before her memory would take a stance in my adult world. So hard and tough. She stands so very still. Unwavering. Untraceable, just a presence I know no other of. It makes imagination an impossibility, to think of what it would have been like. To talk to her adult to adult, today.

We had our time. It was what we were made of. Oh, one can only sigh. One can only cry. How precious she made my life. How precious each step and each memory we are a part of.


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