October 29: "Watercoloring," Notice Beautiful Things, My Mother

As a poet, I sort of train my senses to notice beautiful things that other people might not even give a second glance/smell/taste/feel.  A rainbow slick of oil in a mud puddle.  The breath of autumn yellowing a maple tree.  The sound of waves from a lake I can't see.  The sweet smoke of burning pine branches.  

Most artists (whether poet, sculptor, photographer, dancer, or whatever) are close observers.  

Billy Collins tries his hand at painting . . . 

Watercoloring

by: Billy Collins

The sky began to tilt,

a shift of light toward the higher clouds,

so I seized my brush

and dipped my little cup in the stream,

but once I streaked the paper gray

with a hint of green,

water began to slide down the page,

rivulets looking for a river.

And again, I was too late--

then the sky made another turn,

this time as if to face a mirror

help in the outstretched arm of a god.

These last few days, I have been a little . . . distracted.  It's simply felt like my brain has been about five steps behind me since Saturday or Sunday.  Of course, last weekend was anything but normal, so I thought that may have something to do with it, too.

Then I realized tonight that yesterday was the anniversary of my mother's death.  October 28, 2021.  Three years.  It seems like forever ago, and it seems like just yesterday.  It's strange how I am so observant of a pile of leaves rattling around in the wind or a ginger candy sitting on my tongue, but I completely forget such an important moment in my life.

When I told this story to a friend this evening, she told me to celebrate my mother in a special way.  So here goes . . .

Her name was Betty, and she loved black walnut cake and coconut clusters.

She made the best tapioca pudding in the world, and her spaghetti sauce was the stuff of legend.

Reading was one of her favorite pastimes, and she taught me to love books.

One of her favorite movies was On Golden Pond.

I've never seen anyone pray harder than my mom.  She always had a rosary in her hand, her lips moving silently.

She worked as an advocate for special needs children, giving help and guidance to parents trying to navigate the educational system.

When my sister, Sally, was dying, my mother sat holding her hand, saying over and over, "It's okay.  Don't be afraid.  It's okay.  I love you.  Don't be afraid."

She believed I could do and be anything. 

Join Saint Marty in raising his glass to honor his mother tonight.  There aren't enough words in the universe to describe her.