My Mother's Bed
acrylic on canvas 16x12 inch
When I think of my mother, I often think of her bed. That sounds funny, doesn't it. But it is true, and I will tell you why. My mother ran a daycare for most of my childhood years and her bedroom was sort of like a breakroom at the office for her. She would retreat there for a private phone conversation while the daycare kids were napping, or to smoke a cigarette, listen to music or read her books in the evenings, all three of which she did heavily. It was a place that she seemed to love, and often that was where she could be found. She was more on the bed than in it as I recall. Come to think of it, she actually preferred sleeping on the sofa. I am guessing she felt less alone on the sofa that in her queen-size bed after her and my father divorced.
As a young girl and into my teenage years, I used to sit on her bed and we would look at pictures, listen to her records, and go through her jewelry. She had a fantastic costume jewelry collection. Her mirrored dresser was positioned at the foot of her bed and while she brushed her hair or put on her makeup, I would sit and watch, keeping her company. We had the deepest conversations on that bed and that is the memory I love most. My mother was a talker, and a listener, and a deep thinker, and it was on her bed with the jade colored bedspread covered in bright flowers that I learned these skills from her.
Fast forward years later to her small apartment in the retirement building she resided in until her final day, her bedroom was still a meeting place. She loved to watch movies and there we would sit side by side, legs stretched out, eating crunchy snacks and chocolate things, watching everything from Casa Blanca to Mama Mia. When my older sister lived in Kansas for a few years, she and mom and I had the best Sundays together in that bedroom laughing, talking and watching movies. She had a living room that also had a TV, but she preferred the coziness and comfort of her bed. We still would pull out photo albums and look at her old jewelry from time to time. And we always talked about everything.
My mother died in her sleep seven years ago this coming July at the age of 80. She had a bad heart and we all knew her time was limited. She went just how she wanted to go...painlessly and independent. She also was ON her bed rather than IN it, which I find so ironic now. Ironic, but somehow beautiful.
