WHO YOU WERE


My mother has been 
gone two years now.
I've spent that time
cleaning out the house
she lived in for 50 years. 
By doing so, 
I found out who she was.

Buried in her basement,
I found sketchbooks
filled with living figures
rendered in chalk and charcoal.
I found canvases covered
in flowers and landscapes,
painted in breathing colors. 

Sharing shelves with 
dust and cobwebs, 
I found boxes of 
knitting needles and 
balls of acrylic yarn. 
Near these sat a box 
filled with single socks, 
several almost-scarves 
and two half-quilts,
sewn with care 
in vibrant tones. 

My mother was an artist. 
She never told any of us---
in any way, not once. 
I'm left here to wonder why.

Was it the day in which she lived?
Was she given just so much time
for "self-indulgent" pursuits,
before being forced to get on
with the business of living?
Were a job, a husband and 
two kids the only art projects 
she was permitted?
How did she just. . .stop?
It must've hurt like hell. 

Did she feel the slightest 
twinge of jealousy or regret 
as she encouraged me 
along my bohemian path?
If so, it never showed. 

What now can be said?
What today can be done?

Mother, two years too late, 
I can only apologize 
for keeping you from 
being who you were.