The Painting

#66 The Lily Pad Place Part 2 - Ait An Pillin Lile Cuid 2

I lay down in supple grass at the edge of the pond. I was no longer aware of where Lyle and Frankie were, though I knew they were close. I needed to slow my breathing, I needed to concentrate so I could take in every detail.

The trail through the trees was well cut out and mulched making it easy for us to trek through the miniature forest without much difficulty. In the trees the sun melted away only coming through in short windows in between heavily leafed branches. When we emerged from the path the light illuminated the clearing in an almost unreal way. Every ripple in the pond, every flower appeared somehow more energetically bright as if enhanced by something unknown.

The moment I took in the clearing I knew it to be the Lily Pad Place, but then as I looked around I knew it to be familiar. I'd seen it before, not from a dream or intuition but from my mother.

The clearing was expansive with trees walling off the perimeter fifty feet from the water's edge. Unlike the manicured land visible from the Club the area surrounding the pond was un mowed. Chaotic tangles of vines and tall grasses created a stunning natural picture. My gaze traced over the pond. Prairie grasses and cattails walled off the left edge while lily pads dotted the rippling water at the right half. I followed the scene upwards past the blanket of summer flowers to a nestle a few feet away. The bench was mossy and from where I stood I could see vines climbing up the supports.

I blinked half expecting my mother to appear on the bench, a soft breeze blowing her hair from her face and covering the pink petals she placed behind her ear. I knelt to the ground. I knew the Lily Pad Place - I'd always known. It was Mo Soileireacht.

The painting in which she'd hid her journal. The photos in which I recognized Monroe's cufflink. They were all taken and inspired here. Had my mother sat in this exact spot to paint?

I meant to take three deep breaths before getting up but in truth I'd lost track as I lay in the grass. I counted to three, and then another three, and then another but could not will my body to get up. I closed my eyes picturing the bench where my mother once sat.

I should get up.

I could sit there.

To be close to her.

The thoughts ran through my mind until I found the strength to sit up on my forearms. Looking over the pond I located my traveling companions. Frankie played with the tall grasses pretending to make a beard or shawl as he bent the pieces to drape over his back.

How long was I laying down?

It didn't matter. The sun was up, though it was no longer high above my head as it retreated behind the trees.

I rose to my feet and made my way over to the bench. Moss grew in the crevices of the wood where it broke and splintered as if it were a bandage trying to glue the two back together. I hesitated to sit, just as I had paused before opening Mo Soileireacht. A strange feeling rose in my stomach - like I was watching my own movements but not from my own eyes. I was beyond my body, watching through a lens as my limbs moved like molasses until I made contact with the bench. Seamlessly, I melted into the soft wood.

When I opened Mo Soileireacht and read my mother's words for the first time I was sure that was the closest I would ever feel to her. Enveloped by her thoughts, but here on the bench where she sat. In the place where she came time and time again, even memorialized with a painting - a craft so spiritual to her – I felt the air compress as if it were wrapping me in a warm blanket. I focused on my breath as I let my hands run over the uneven seat.

My heart stopped as my fingertips grazed over a warm part of the bench. I looked up at the sun as it concentrated its energy on a seemingly insignificant square inch of the bench. I let my hand rest there as I looked out over the pond.

I was in her perspective now. In every blade of grass I saw her brush strokes. In every ripple on the water as the crowded lily pads bumped each other I saw her patience to capture their movement in her art. It was not how I expected to feel her presence, because it wasn't her I felt. It was her art, her passion and love for the beauty she created with a paintbrush and canvas.

The strange feeling I felt in my stomach, the one that latched onto me when I opened Mo Soileireacht and then again as I hesitated to sit on the bench, was only strange because I couldn't define it. I couldn't define my mother. No matter how many of her thoughts I read I would never understand her or feel as close to her as I did now. The journal may have been an even ground for understanding but here, in nature, on the same bench where she was inspired to create I was close to her.

I couldn't define my mother - I don't think I ever will be able to - and in truth perhaps she could not define herself either. Constantly torn in opposite directions out of love. A shiver ran down my spine as I recalled her last entry. It was by the pond were she made her final visit with Monroe.

Had he killed her here?

My hand gravitated to my locket.

Should I be feeling so content here? After all, to my knowledge my mother only visited this space to meet with Monroe. Could I really claim it as our space, a place for me to connect with her?

Another layer of warmth slid over my hand and I looked up to see Lyle sitting beside me, her hand over mine. "What are you thinking about?"

I took a deep breath and turned my palm over to squeeze her hand. "Everything."

"The Lily Pad Place is Mo Soileireacht."

I nodded letting my eyes relax as they glazed over lazily taking in the scenery. My Clarity.

There was more to the clearing than Monroe and her misguided infatuation. He introduced her to this hidden gem but as I relaxed in the warmth of the sun and the soft tickle of grass against my ankles I knew it was more. The Lily Pad Place was her domain not his, there was nothing about him that fit with the serenity of the pond or the quiet of the trees. My mother chose this spot for herself perhaps knowing she didn't fit in with the people of the Country Club, maybe even a premonition that she and Monroe would not last.

Maybe that is why she gave the space two different names. Both were in essence the same physically, but the mental space was different. Monroe was a part of the Lily Pad Place but there was not a hint of him in Mo Soileireacht. Mo Soileireacht was pure, untouched, where my mother went to find her peace and inspiration. My mind wandered, maybe Mo Soileireacht was not a stationary setting but something that traveled with my mother. That is why I felt so close to her in this moment, it wasn't the occasional soft ribbet of the frogs or the way the pond lapped at the grassy edge, it was that my mother left some of her clarity here.