11 years ago, on this day, was the last Mother’s Day my mom had… years travel at light’s speed and gain momentum in every passing. If we all be but hiccups in this universe, I dare say my family was a real gas! Jokes aside, talking to anyone in this pic, none could’ve predicted how the picture would change. I’m grateful for the memories. I’m even grateful for the ones that have become bittersweet.
In this picture, now, I see 3 lost to this plain, one marriage just begun while another yet to come, 3 children whose forecasts couldn't be imagined, 4 out of state moves with myself having 2 of those, laughs and struggles, estrangement, a snapshot of any given family, I suppose. If I were to paint this picture now, it would be shaded with all the experiences since, even the ones that haven’t been so kind which weren't few. But, my palette in that landscape would still be vibrant and warm. It would be a slurry, a flurry of color. It would have a measured rhythm, the pulse and consistency that is the idea of family. It would be a peace I’d enjoy creating. It would be a piece others might enjoy, even feel a sense of connection yet not necessarily understand why.
It’s strange when people pass this plane. All of the bullshit, silly arguments fade into shadows. It’s not a complete beatification yet it’s close, especially when the poignancy of their absence is made more acute like during holidays. My mother was human, as we all are. She had her strengths and her weaknesses, as we all have. Yet, I imagine her fiery red and a soft, pastel pink. I mean, look at her arm and its hanging flesh, the delineation of muscles in her neck, taunt, holding up her wigged head and her chest slightly sunken below her clavicle yet shoulders still held back. She’d fought stage 4 almost 6 years by now; this picture personifies the sickliness she was and grace she emulated. SPEECHLESS.