Scavenging for sweaters, rings, anything. Frantically sifting through your remains. Desperate for evidence of your existence. You were just here. Right here! Right? In many ways I feel like I made you up. I only knew you relative to me. A relative to me. The MOST relative to me. My mother.
Poof! Suddenly all eras of your life collapsed. Flattened like a Photoshop document. All images of you now exist on one layer.
No longer a woman morphing from role to role throughout changing scenes across a time line. Present and future no longer exist. Only past. Passed. Passed through. Through.
[Painting Not For Sale]