In her chair, listening to the priest quietly murmuring last rites as her final earthly breaths cut through the silence of the night.
The only other sound, the clock on the wall marking time in the remaining minutes and seconds of my mothers life.
Each tick like a tiny paper cut to my heart, I counted my regrets.
Not having told her enough that I loved her.
Not being present as often as I should.
Each disappointment flickering in her eyes when I’d failed her.
In her chair- the soft sweet scent of hair brushing tear stained cheeks as she bent to patch battered knees.
The unhurried stitching of countless torn trousers…
The way the golden lamp light fell across her face, as she sat reading late into a balmy summer evening.
The swell of her belly as each child came and left.
As she sang lullabies to those that remained.
Christmas mornings as she sat and watched each of us unwrap our gift…
In her chair, waiting for my turn for lessons at the piano. Impatiently enduring the mistakes of my sisters, wanting mine to be over so I could return to my adventures outside.
In her chair, wrapped in wool blankets, feeling poorly on a bitter winters day watching as she sat finishing letters, while the pot on the stove filled the house with the steaming aroma of rich oxtail soup.
In her chair, the switch of my fathers belt bent over his knee, penance for starting a fire in the chicken coop.
In her chair, staring out the window waiting for HIM to come home, who never would – the pain in her face staining the lace curtains with grief.
I sit once again and let the whispers of the past peel themselves from dark corners and dance with dust motes as the grey winter light softly illuminates the stories that were written, here in this room – in her chair.
Photo taken in Griffith Pioneer Park Museum. – My little fictional piece of musing.