(processing the sudden death of my mother)

Through

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.

[Painting Not For Sale]