This work, also shown as a smaller image in another post, is going up on the block this coming weekend. It needs to say its piece before I possibly lose it forever:
For a couple of years we’ve held a family dinner for my parents every Sunday. Oh yes, all the kids, the wives, the husbands, and the grandkids come right on time; and we take turns with cooking or take-out. Our kids come from soccer, from basketball, or from Future Business Leaders of America. They sport their medals, laugh and grin over video games, and hog all the ice cream with good cheer.
We are down to just one parent resident at the facility now, and one grand kid has hustled himself on over to an out of state university, so things are a bit quieter, but still lovely.
The dinners have always been fun, and I think much appreciated. In between the dinners, though, events unfolded and rippled and consumed. There were times of deep darkness, times where a mother’s voice, racked with infections, or with anesthesia, would chant hissing, stream of conscious threats in a sing song rhythm. Times she felt all alone, with no family, no possessions, no spouse. Times that mother did not know she was a mother, or even a woman. During those times -the times in between Sundays, and the times when meds were needing an adjustment – I was sometimes with her. I worked a full time teaching job with young children by day, held and loved my mother through her hard times, and showed up on Sundays for the festivities. There’s so much more, but it is slowly finding its own place in a longer piece I’m writing.
This is the painting that shows my space, my heart and my mind, as I left that building every Sunday and slowed my car down to a near crawl just so I could linger on this coastal drive. November and December are especially dark and windy here, and all the surfaces are coated in a dark gray-green. It’s a short drive, but a cleansing one. Cormorants and crows take over the old pilings that stretch off shore. The pilings are never alone, something always wants to hold their space, just as I clung to holding onto mine.
So, up for the market now babe…but I made you, and if you do find a loving home with another person then here is where I can return to you, this place between the real and the unreal, between the living and the dreamt, between the tangible and the ethereal. Now you have your own post, and you’re on record.
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Shades of gray. So much color yet our eyes see only the shades of gray. Many of us pessimistically look upon our daily survival through the lenses of shades of gray and others, who lived full rich lives, look back upon their lives reflecting on the many shades of gray – days when things were “good” balanced with those not so good. For many there has not been a balance of good and bad days. And so, the gray looks and feels a little darker for some.
I like the lightness of the clouds in the distance. For me, eternally working through the travails of the present, I look up for hope and opportunity to find brightness…or a lighter shade of gray.
I love that comment. Thanks. I just saw it…people’s responses are not so readily seen on this blog.
Every day …look every day. I happen to be quite fond of grays, especially the green-grays and rusty-grays and blue-grays. I find them peaceful, except when the wind is blowing hard -then it’s all invigorating. Unfortunately that’s not metaphor, because in real life we need the sun as well. Thank you for commenting.
You elude the warmth you just felt every time you were at your parents residence. It seems the “icy, cold” is what you may feel in the future when the family gathers there no longer.
I wish that were true, Nancy. My mother’s sundowning was horrific…most days, for about half an hour or so, where she’d be filled with dread. She’d be terrified there was a child getting hurt, somewhere in her darkness. She was a child therapist, and it came back to haunt her in spades. She’d see horrible things. She would lose her gender and be irate that things on her body were out of place. She’d shiver and moan in absolute dread, often. Sometimes she would hiss threats at us. It would clear up, and then start again the next day. For years, to varying degrees of fear and dread. Sometimes it would just be that she thought she had no children, or that she was alone. She had a lot of good times too, I will say that, when she was full of child-like, infectious joy. The bad times were short, in comparison, but frequent. Ice and cold were the suffering she underwent during those dark hours. I miss her so much, my real mom, but I am so glad she is released from all that. When she passed, I felt very much like a midwife, like I was there for a birth. I mourn her loss, but not her passing. I know she is in a better place. When my father passes, it is likely that what is rest of the family will scatter to the 4 corners of the Earth, and yes, I will miss the gatherings, but be grateful we had them. I’m so glad you take the time to read my posts! Thanks for your comments, and hope you and yours are well now. If you ever want anything for your Sunshine, please let me know…