My Very Favorite Artist

I am surrounded by my mother’s work. Weavings hang on every wall,  a pastel creature that once smiled above my son’s crib now rests on stand-by.  Her sculpture roars in her apartment far away.  She told me once that when she was little, she drew pictures long into night.  My brother keeps her sketch of Abe Lincoln,  that could have been a photograph.  Her eye brought balance to what surrounded her, even the way she entered a room. I remember a pink empire raincoat she wore to the ballet, moving on to poodley fabrics and orange knit suits. And then, later in time, she followed her Bohemian urges and dressed in fabrics from as far away as she could find.  Years and years of creating and dancing — nurturing on the way.  Time passes, now 95,  she wears the softest night gowns I can find, and no longer creates.   When I put pastels in her hand on a recent visit, and a pad within reach,  she made a few strokes, and wanted no more.  My lovely mother carried us and then let us run.  She watches in place.  My very favorite artist.