My Mother

 

Mom's pastel 

Can it be I started blogging on Blogger in 2009? We've had an on again off again relationship since, but I come back because I need to write.

Fortunately, for me, anyway, I saved many of my posts before leaving Blogger the first time. I'm looking at them now, compiled in a book which was published on Amazon. I sold five copies before I unpublished it. Going through it now makes me a bit sad, not because it was bad, but because I still like what I wrote. I am surprised by some of the work and think, "Wow, I wrote that." Even then I was bashing the orange man. Back then I had a few faithful readers who led me to believe I was a decent writer. Blogging was fun, until it wasn't. I then made a half hearted attempt again a few years back, but became disillusioned within weeks. With this new blog I have one official follower, and one good blogging friend. I like going to his blog. It's like childhood friends hanging out, raising our fists against "them" in VR solidarity.

Blogger feels like the once thriving town everyone deserted, yet, I come back. It feels like home to me.

I think I will post a few of my past writings here, like the one below. Since today is Mother's Day, I'll reshare this one. I wrote many stories, and still do, about my mom and my childhood. Growing up with one alcoholic parent and the other, an enabler, leaves tears in the universe I try to sort through by writing. There are times when I am so angry and bitter, yet, I try to place myself in her shoes. I try to appreciate how very complex she was. 

My mother had beautiful hands - artist hands. On our living room wall, above the console tv, hung an oil pastel that she had painted when she was thirteen.

It was the only piece of art that remained of her long forgotten dream.

It laid crooked in the frame, and stayed that way for as long as I can remember.

I always relished alone time with my mother. When she asked who wants to take a ride to the grocery store with her, I always volunteered.

As Mom and I walked towards the store, we heard the tinny music playing from the grocer's new addition. It was a carousel, dazzling us with pretty lights and colorful, prancing ponies.

It seemed out of place in the small space, filling the corner between the grocery store and the pharmacy. It was a looming bulk of machinery. Shoppers would have to step off the sidewalk to get around it.

As Mom and I approached the store's entrance, I watched as if time had slowed. A boy had stepped behind or slipped off the carousel and was trapped against the brick wall and a white pony. His face began to turn red as the pony continued to push against him. I turned and watched as my mother grabbed onto the back of the pony's tail and pulled. I heard her groan as the opposing mass of steel moved just enough to release the child.

For a moment the three of us stood in silence, finally shattered by the wails of the boy as he came around the carousel. My mother moved to hold him but he ran past, crying for his own mother. 

As we walked into the store I couldn't help looking at her. She looked the same, acted the same, but, one of us had changed.

There were times when I wanted to scream at her, angry because I thought she was weak and uncaring when she succumbed to the drink, always. It would be another long night, sitting at the kitchen table until she would pass out. 

Then there was the woman, with the beautiful hands, who was more than a number to a disease. She was an artist. She was a hero. She was my mother.


*After my mom had her stroke my parents decided to move to Ohio. As we packed up their stuff, I took the crooked painting, where it now hangs on my living room wall. 

Comments

Anonymous said…
You are so good! And your mom was a hero that day.

Popular posts from this blog

An Empty Vessel

Denver, Dover, Dever

FAFO Literally