charcoal pencil on w/c paper pad
About a month before my mother made her final crossing (on 12/27/12) I took her to get a haircut. She wanted to try a short cut of the sort that didn’t need to be curled. A 20 something year old girl gave her a “cute” if boyish cut. I thought this would be a disaster for her self image, coming as she did from the generation of perms and rollers. But Mom adjusted to the new look.
“I looked around me (at the Assisted Living residence)” she said, ” and saw so many girls (translate to old ladies) with the same haircut. Old ladies have short hair so that you can tell them apart from the young girls. (giggle!)”
So what do you do while spending hours by the bedside in a vigil while your mother lies mostly quietly, in the phase that Hospice workers refer to as “transitioning”? I found myself on this day, Dec. 22nd, with none of my art supplies handy. So I rummaged around in Mom’s closet and found a block of w/c paper and a charcoal pencil. She was after all, my first art teacher. And as I sketched I wrote down some of her mutterings, which seemed to offer a window into what she was experiencing. Things like, “Are you ready to go yet?” and more, which I have cropped out in this image. Heard as metaphor from a mind freed from conventional language, her speech was somehow understandable and had a particular power.
Next day more sketching, feeling slightly guilty, like taking advantage. But I’d sketched her so many times before and she’d never complained. In truth I never had a more encouraging supporter of my art than my mom. In fact one of the last things she said to me, in metaphoric language after one of her almost continual dreams was, “I visited the Louvre and they had a special section there. Can you believe, the paintings were identical to yours!”
On Christmas Eve she had ceased speaking and there was a quality of transparency in her. She seemed most comfortable in this position and would stop breathing for what seemed like long periods of time. This sketch captured a return to childlike innocence.
And so I will leave you there, although I continued to sketch while taking in the sensory experience of flesh becoming spirit, identifying with each step of the process as one must unavoidably do with ones own mother. And I became a new member of the exclusive club of those women who have outlived their mothers.
On the day before her final day I whispered into Mom’s ear, “Is your mother with you?” She always said her mother would be waiting for her. Her response was an imperceptible nod.