Mother;

That cool sunny September morn, even as the phone rang, I knew.
I knew it was someone calling to tell me it was over.
All the fears, nightmares and terrors could now be let go.
I could lay down and have a peaceful nights' sleep, walk down the street without looking over my shoulder and not be struck with terror from a knock on my door.

My daughter knew too, all she could do was shake her head with disbelief and my husband breathed as he hadn't in years and you could almost see the thousand pound weight lifted from his shoulders.

Shrunken by cancers and death I could not recognize you, and untrusting that it still wasn't
some trick, I had to be sure, I had to know and so I had them show me your hands.
Those I would know no matter what..
those hands that could harm or heal,
that could stroke a fevered brow so gently or smash an entire house worth of stuff.
Those hands that not only held mine, but held pills and razor blades too.
Those hands that could strike a blow or paint an enchanting scene, those hands I knew.


Then I had to walk into that building, the one I hadn't entered in 7 years. It was remarkably almost the same...cheap bent signs everywhere, the smell of sanitizers assaulting you throughout the corridors, the squeaky shaky elevator that always takes forever and those grimy well worn carpets marching down grimy halls of cheap doors that are all alike.

My sentry at the ready, with his trusty bat, the two us transformed into trembling children, as we were both oh so positive you'd be coming out from somewhere to get
us, like the bogey man that used to hide in the closet, the reality of it all still not viable to either of us.

We opened the door, and it hit us...the stench, the filth, the utter chaos that reigned within...but that was not the worst...then we notice THEM, they were everywhere;
on the door sill, on the ceiling, on the walls, throughout the furniture, the rug actually moved with their
motion. One of my worst fears come true and in full roaring technicolour...roaches...thousands of them, literally. And like the children we felt were, we ran, ran to the safety of friends and family. But we knew we had to go back, better prepared, but back again nonetheless.

So back we went, looking like spacemen come to invade the unknown land. I had to see if there were any treasures left...
the Buddah statue that watched over me as each horror unravelled,
the painted Scottsman in full regalia that I swore would one day come to life to rescue me.
the painted lady so many swore I would one day look like,
the silver ashtray that was always a center piece to so many dramas,
the half size carousel horse I so lovingly acquired, repaired and painted for you the day you came out of that useless rehab...
gone...all gone, nothing but unrecognizable rubbish from where I didn't even know.

Home we went, a home I'd never appreciated so much before. Warm and clean, smelling of lemons and pine, squeals of delight and excited little faces so happy to see me, soft chubby arms wrapped around me everywhere.

Later on, still heart sore from my loss of childhood treasures, I went to my room to do what consoles me best.
My small shaky desk and straight back chair beckoned to me. The crisp clean sheets of paper, newly sharpened
pencils, fresh clear water in a tin, tubes and tubes of bright pretty colours awaiting my brush...all calling out to me.
I sat down, opened my large heavy black ringed sketch book and picked up my favourite charcohl pencil and then it dawned upon me like an unexpected wave crashing to shore...
more precious than any painting, statue or trinket...
not only armed with the knowledge of what to and not to do with them...
you left me your hands.

February 12, 1946 - September 28, 2001