~ an excerpt from a life

Some days, my mother prefers to read, ignoring my presence. In those moments, we are adrift. Mother and Daughter slip past one another, like ghost ships in the night. I fail to tow her back to now, to us, to me.


Today she stares off into the distance, a novel in hand. Her eyes close. She pauses. Much like Alice, she owns a slice of ‘Wonderland’. Her eye’s view of life is from an artist’s perspective, each lost or found scene, a painting. Stormy skies smear indigo grey to turquoise, her oceans, cerulean. The universe handed her this gift, both a blessing and a curse, the ability to meddle with clarity.

Her eyes open. She is ready to return.

Mom shares a story. A story that sticks. It links to my father. I listen as we time travel back to the mid 60’s. Years dissolve age and I see her, lounging on a deck chair. She wears white pedal pushers and an indigo sweater, her hair swept back beneath a knotted silk scarf. It resembles Pucci; it isn’t. Beautiful as she inhales on a cigarette. I watch her exhale. Smoke ribbons curl on the breeze.





Published by

Anna Watson

~ write like a painter

3 thoughts on “”

    1. Mom is a passionate reader- still. She reads a novel a week (without glasses). Her mind is fierce. Into stories is where she chooses to go when she is tired, stressed, or seeking diversion. Some days I wait her out. Other days I accept this as my cue to exit. And then there are the days when she tells stories from our lives.

      I wish I could share this particular story in its entirety, to show its beautiful ending. Perhaps.

      Thank you for your wise words and follow.

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