"When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken hearted,
To sever for years,.....
What remains of my mother? A picture? A memory? A thought?
Motherhood dissolves in time, the love and concern gets muddled up when all you have are images to contend with. How do you then procreate a 'mother' from pictures like these? The quietness of the afternoon, the lushness of the lawn, foliage green bursting with rhapsodic color, the loveliness of love in hands of a mother!
My sister is lucky. She has this proud image, a conclusive and concrete proof in time, presentable in any worldly and celestial court of law, that she was loved by her mother at one time. I have none.
I must pick and brush my fossilized brain, much like an enthusiastic archeologist, to find a treasure such as this. I test and torture my mind to remember such loving scenes of motherly affection, I plod along the twenty years that she was in life or me in hers, to grasp and cling to love enacted and displayed. But, all I come back with is emptiness.
Not that my mother didn't love me, that isn't possible in my scheme of things, but the black and white images, the relief of acts frozen in time blossoming with love are not in my memory.
Am I missing something or do I have amnesia?
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