The Painting

#86 Blinded - Dallailte

It was fair weather in late March with a blue sky and wisps of airy clouds that made the heavens look like an unmixed blotch of paint on an artist's pallet. It surprised me – the nice weather. I'm not sure why – maybe I secretly hoped for rain and that all the rooms where they usually held these types of events would be booked and the director would say something along the lines of, "Sorry miss, guess we'll just have to skip it.". But none of that happened. The sun shone without a threat of dark clouds as the minister, Lyle and I huddled under and old birch tree.

What a peculiar emotion, to have waited so long for something – really anything – to happen, and now that it was to want nothing more than for it to be over quickly. I suppose I never got so far as to picture this. I'd always imagined myself in some strange utopia where I would be holding my mother's hand instead of standing in front of a pearl colored urn carrying her ashes. I liked to create a world in which she'd had amnesia or another cliché from a soap opera that would be explained in a neat little package and then we would go out to ice cream and everything else we missed.

I would never have to wonder who I was any longer, or fear that I would follow her same path.

A slight pressure on my hand reminded me of Lyle's presence and simultaneously that I would never be either of those things. Her hand naturally found its way to mine and she squeezed it momentarily. I shook my head then gathering my bearings my eyes found hers. She was serene, just as she had been the first night on the train. That night was a world away.

Her lips curved upwards ever so slightly as I had found she often did when she did not have the words but wanted to convey consciously she was there for me.

I diverted my attention to the minister who waited patiently a few feet directly across from us. He stood with his shined shoes that sank into the grass. Next to him the a cracked bench and on the bench the urn. The urn looked so lonely on the unfinished wood that I had gone off to pick some tall grasses and cattails from where the land met the pond. The unique bouquet surrounded the cream colored urn. An easel flanked the bench and on it stood my mother's self-portrait in its understated slim wood frame.

I gave a timid nod as I met the minsters eyes, his patience was to be duly commended. I held my breath as he began to speak.

"We are gathered here today..."

When we – or rather Lyle – set up the service among the first question was for any special memories, stories, achievements. When I failed to supply those he promptly asked about her basic character rattling off simple personality traits that would apply to anyone who reached the point in their life when they fit in an eighteen ounce container.

Sensing my agitation Lyle politely suggested to the minister that I need a day to think it over.

That night I went home and read and re-read her journal, attempting to soak up any aspect of her personality. It was near morning when sleep overtook me and Mo Soileireacht rested on my chest like a security blanket. For the first time in a long time I woke naturally from warm sunshine on my cheek. There was no jolting dream that day, nothing that made me wake in a sweat or dizziness in my head. Still, I did dream.

My mother was before me - her whole self - not just her portrait or a floating head. It was her in the flesh sitting on the bench beside the wildflowers. She held out her hand and suddenly I felt small. My own hand fit in hers and I expected her to pull me to the bench but instead she used my own arm as leverage to lift herself from the faded wooden planks.

It was night and we walked in silence around the moonlit pond. I could think of nothing to say and as we rounded the last curve she let go of my hand. I didn't protest, I was anchored to my spot as I watched her wade into the water. My mother walked to the middle of the pond before she looked back at me. In the moons spotlight she was illuminated. Her features were more clear than I'd ever seen them and her eyes lit up like the moon itself.