A portrait of a mother

My biggest fear is forgetting.  Not the general over-arching themes of my mom’s life, or the sense of her developed over a lifetime of living in the same house together.  The essence of my mother has been preserved in my very genes, and in the emotions I associate with her memory.  I don’t think I realized before, though, that it is the littlest things that slip away the fastest, the most mundane details that hurt the most in their blurring.

Already it is hard to hear my mother’s voice.

I can recite to you the big, retold stories, the family lore and mythology, as they pertain to my mother, but it is hard to recall individual days.  Those typical, mundane details do not glitter hard like stones, but slip away like leaves in a stream.  I have an outline of my mother, but the specifics are starting to smudge.

As a writer, this is unacceptable.  Reality is in the details.  If I am to show my mom to those I love now, and–especially–those I will love later (my future husband, children, grandchildren), I need the tiny, seemingly insignificant details to paint as something other than myth or legend.

This summer, even though it is difficult (because it is painful) to dwell on these tiny moments, I want to capture my mom in a series of portraits.  I want to pin down some tiny memories before they fade.

Likely, this is an effort to keep my mother real, and close.  But it is also in an effort to share and cherish a woman who was so human, and real, and incredible, but who I don’t want to lose completely to the rose-colored glasses through which we inevitably seem to see the past.

So for the next month, starting tonight, I will be posting a specific memory (long or short, big or small) of my mom.  I’ll be painting a portrait of my mom, as I was lucky enough to know her, and who I am privileged to remember and to celebrate.

I love you, mom.