This memory (based on an experience that happened just a few days before my mom died) is a very tender one for me—tender in terms of endearing, yes, but more in terms of very very soft … painful to the touch . I still tear up when I see people, strangers, especially strangers, taking small steps.
My mom was a force—incredibly strong-willed, independent, stubborn—and depicting her this vulnerable became a challenge. Initially, the images looked very different from the way they look now (I completely scrapped the initial set). Even after I became comfortable with the direction in which I was taking them, I revised several of the words and images (some over and over again). I’m still not sure if it’s clear; maybe it needs a little more context?
Too, I remain uncomfortable with the limited perspective I’m giving. I was not my mother’s only (or primary) caregiver, for instance, and do no want to give any false impressions (or piss people off). But I also do believe that this story is not about comfort—not for me and not for what it has to say about death. So …
Okay. I am going outside now to enjoy this rare sunny day in Seattle. :-)
Mita Mahato 