Of Art & Books & Family

I spent the day with my mother.  She's 86; suddenly more frail.  Not the indomitable woman of my youth.

 

how soon the child-dreamer 
becomes the elder - 
the matriarch
falling failing

In less than an hour impatience is telling me to leave. I start plotting when and how . . . but then an inspiration . . . or maybe just good luck:  my mother has a history book of the town where she still lives.  The town of my birth and where I grew up. 

I began reading to her:  stories of immigration from Ireland, Canada and Italy. Stories of entrepreneurs and other dreamers. Of war and returning heroes. Its pages dotted with the landscape of our lives: my old dance instructor, friends, family, neighbors, our church, my school.  All are witness to the overgrowth of a town to a city. Reading became the event of the day.

my mother can no longer see well enough to read 

she who gave me a love of books

and read to me of girl-dreamers
and boy-seekers

of adventure, mystery and lore

now i read to her

I read of stories that become fodder 

for remembrances to share

catalysts

for her oral history 

intimate

stories that expand in this larger context

the day was saved

her anger dissipated

my impatience assuaged

I felt a better person

a sigh

she laughed

hugged me

said how happy

was the day

Original art work 

uploaded by PatStudio