© C. m ART z 2015
The love we received from our parents, if among the fortunate ones; is a love like we will never have the joy of feeling ever again in our lives. We love our children, if so blessed, an imperfect significant other in our life but parents…there is no replacing that Love.
Thinking back to my earlier years I never was interested in what feelings, hopes, dreams my parents may have had. It was a time when things such as those were not shared. At times I would see hurt in my mother’s eyes, a tear falling down her cheek. She never spoke of these things.
Children today are not so different I suppose. Busy with there own hopes, plans and dreams.
In hindsight be curious. Ask questions, dive into your parents hearts. There are innumerable reasons WHY you are who you today. Many of your attributes and idiosyncrasies have originated with your parents and their parents history.
Don’t wait till the time comes when your phone doesn’t ring and you miss hearing “How’s my number two daughter today?” on the other end.
I can not count the times in my life since both my parents passed that I desired to pick up the phone and ask them something. Inquiring of her and my father’s health is another situation that I should have been more inquisitive about. The memories of designing address labels for my mom that she so loved. Bagging up the days catch to send off to them all wrapped individually as they requested. I can still see my dad’s face devouring a freshly caught lobster tail, dipped in mounds of melted butter.
My mama wrote many things down. Recipes, her prose, her drawings. Irreplaceable.
Most are lost too me.
I was never interested.
Something I wrote after she passed in 2004
Realizing the answers of our family and ancestors
are out of reach now~
The very essence of knowledge and wisdom
ashes spread over open spaces
Questions held inside
Knowing there will be no forthcoming answers
Thankful for memories and mementos
However we perceive the memory or incident
Hidden recipes, poems, prose, love letters, personal journals written in scribbled hand
Voices on Memorex
for prosperity as dad would say
Photographs that hold a thousand stories
told from the eye of the viewer
These are what I have now
Collections in my mind
Written July 3 2004
© C. m ART z 2015
‘Time is what we want most, but what we use worst” – William Penn