Life Without Mother

Dear Mom,

I went to Color Me Mine this weekend. It was the first time I’d been — at least as I can remember — since the one time I went after your death, nearly 8 years ago.

But, even though this shop occupied a busy street corner in the Upper West Side of New York City, and I went with three dear friends who had not done this before, and (apparently) the detail bottles have been discontinued — from the moment I walked in, I felt the familiarity. The process of being welcomed in, sat at a square table and given the ceramic paint palette, brushes, and water bowls, and instructed in the basic techniques and expectation to receive our finished product in 1-2 weeks. The atmosphere: friends chatting, kids laughing, attendants giving advice and encouragement to the (often amateur) artists. The fresh and earthy smell of the ceramics all displayed on light wooden shelves along the wall paired with the smell of the paint, especially that in use at every table (and gracing many of the hands using it). Dryness clinging to the air itself as though to encourage the faster application of multiple coats for the best results in less time.

Of course, upon entering and choosing a piece — a small mug with a flower design imprinted into the pottery itself — I saw a design I liked on a similar plate and asked an attendant for the technique. She told me, and as it didn’t seem to difficult to try, I had my plan for the evening. Needless to say, even with the two and a half hours we spent there, I did not finish my piece. But, all of my girlfriends did, and enjoyed the experience.

One of my favorite things came in coaching them through the basics and when asked if I had done it before/how often, my own surprise as I put a number to it: I’d done it for nearly eight years! (And then hadn’t for almost as long.) Truly, the whole experience felt — to use a classic cliche — like riding a bike. Yet, even in the familiarity and nostalgia, there was the freshness: a new shop, new friends, a new technique, a new place in my life.

I had told others before, and of course during this little outing, of our family history with this specific business — how we had gone so often that when you were looking for that part-time job to fill your time when we were all out of the house with school, working there naturally fit. Yet, that time, this simple experience of painting a ceramic — I forgot the extensive (if unobtrusive) place it had in my life for nearly one third of my life.

Mom, this year has been one of remembering. Not you, specifically, but the pieces of my life surrounding those core memories I’ve been, shall I say, practically obsessed with remembering.

But, through this experiential remembrance, I’ve realized — as I told Mary Faith — even more similarities in our personality. In particular, the obsessive care and attention to detail. Okay, I know yours was to a certain extent mine may never be; however, this care for the details provides the foundation to my love for editing, proofreading, even formatting a design. The detail work that others may get bored with, I get to do unto the LORD knowing that He cares for the details, even as He placed in you and me a more intuitive love for the same.

I’m learning to remember well. To do so, not in the vacuum of my own mind and heart, but in the community of new shared memories.

I think it’s fitting that as I’m writing this, we mark the eighth anniversary of your funeral celebrations. For it was the week after that I began my marathon — my sprint-turned-cross country (literally) race to move on from the shock and pain of that day. I’ve been so set on finally reaching the finish line. Getting to the place where it hurts less, and I have answers. Straining toward a time when I can truly live life without you with actual happiness and contentment. Ironically, it seems to be as I’m slowing that I’m actually able to do so.

I’m not crying. I may tomorrow. I may not. But, I think I’m getting better. Better for the sake of remembering.

Your daughter,
Hannah