I awoke that Thursday morning with my mom on my heart, although there hadn’t been much sleep at all. From one thousand miles away, I could feel her, and what I felt, felt like leaving. She had been admitted to the hospital the night before with an infection in her leg. It sounded simple but, in the pit of my stomach, I knew it was not going to be simple at all.
The sun was still below the horizon when I meandered into my studio and turned on the quiet little lamp on the ink stained table. The stains were my favorite part of the table and I held them as evidence that something important was happening.
For some reason, certain poppies fluttered in my head – those same poppies I'd painted last fall when I was dabbling in acrylics. Mom loved them. Why didn’t I give them to her for Christmas? Why was I waiting for her birthday? Sure, she loved the snowman catching snowflakes painting, but is there a rule that says a daughter can’t give her mom two paintings while everyone else gets just one? No. No rule. Just worry. Always worry.
The sun was still below the horizon when I meandered into my studio and turned on the quiet little lamp on the ink stained table. The stains were my favorite part of the table and I held them as evidence that something important was happening.
For some reason, certain poppies fluttered in my head – those same poppies I'd painted last fall when I was dabbling in acrylics. Mom loved them. Why didn’t I give them to her for Christmas? Why was I waiting for her birthday? Sure, she loved the snowman catching snowflakes painting, but is there a rule that says a daughter can’t give her mom two paintings while everyone else gets just one? No. No rule. Just worry. Always worry.
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