Rememberer
The weather had been as overcast as my mood these last few weeks, and I couldn't tell whether it was because of or despite the lack of brilliant sunshine I've grown so accustomed to in Southern California. A project in the sun would be the perfect salve for a lagging spirit – outside always seeming to help – nature as therapy. That got me looking for my cache of cyanotypes, the recognizable blue and white of sun prints. I found their folder tucked away in one of my storage bins. I saved them from the summer that I made them like mad – the poolside afternoon with friends still resonates. It has been years since I looked at them, and now I like the ones I had nearly tossed, still bearing the wrinkles and folds from the ball they became in my waste bin – saved at the very last minute. The third thing was a connection to my Mom. She loved very few things as much as her garden and evening vodka. So it seemed a perfect way to think about her heading into my first Mother's Day without Shirley. She would go to the garden in the cooler summer evenings, weed, and cut fresh flowers for the table. The cut glass lowball of Tito's on the black-tiered garden table we found together during a trip to the curio shop. That table was sweet, feminine, and the perfect addition to her tiny back patio. I didn't keep it; instead, my sister-in-law took it, and I wonder if it makes her think of my Mom. Shirley was a putterer – whether in her garden or her house, moving the stacks of books by quarter inches until they were exactly right. Before she died, I said, "Mom, I will remember – I will remember it all." And I do.
