When it’s your mama’s birthday and you set out thoughtfully for days… to write something profound about blue feathers and her blue eyes, your blue eyes and the blues of wishing she had lived a little longer, and instead…you paint and feel free.
New pieces tonight:
Today, my mama would have been 77 and on Saturday, it was year 7 since she died.
So, I painted a rooster because she loved them. I painted a cow because it’s harder than I thought and at first it was horrible. I decided not to give up, so I painted a cow and I’ll name her Pearl. Then I finished up the “Gather at the River” painting, three angels, mama, me, my girl.
I thought of writing about finding feathers. I’d been finding them all along the way. But, I stopped. Stopped seeing them when glancing down, I guess because I’d become so diligent and longing in my search, forcing the finding of them.
Today, almost sundown, no feather found. I meandered through dead hydrangea, the crisp, dry and crinkly straw from pines. It was dusk. I looked down for a feather, found not one.
But, the bright forsythia are beginning to bloom on the barren charcoal branches.
If there’s a color of hope, I’m sure it’s bright yellow.
So, I painted tonight, lulled by bluegrass sonnets and happy rhythm of time passing quickly and contentedly unaware.
I thought of my morning tribute to her. We love you. We miss you. We are all just fine.
So, happy birthday in heaven mama. I painted your rooster, most beautiful ever I believe, your presence close by.
I love you. I miss you. I’m doing just fine.