Color is My Mother

Color is me, color is my mother,

Painting together outside on a sunny California day.

My mother's palette,

An ensemble of colors running together

Dripping a bit on her oversized shirt here and there.

Her painter's smock, my father's old button down, still carrying his scent.

The mother of my childhood,

Beautiful, smiling redhead,

Dynamic and complex.

So different from now, declining, confused and befuddled, placidly sitting in her chair,

No longer knowing my name.

Gone is the smell of acrylic, milk and clay, scents made real by swathes of color,

Now fading from us fast: just like her mind.

Her spirit remains here,

Though lightly tethered to her body.

It won't be long before she lets go.

Color is my mother, always the best dressed

In her rainbow blazer that only she could wear.

Bright robin's egg blue eyes as if light by the sun,

A radiant redhead with long, lazy curls

With a headful of hues, painting abstract landscapes and formations,

Collaging upon layers of acrylic and fabric.

Color is my mother, color is me

Trying to recreate that feeling on a warm sunny day, painting with my sons,

Outside, smelling fresh opened Tempera, as swathes of color are wrapped

Around me by my children.