Kindness
Do we know the stories people hold within or between each other?
My parents were hardworking, kind to each other but I never thought of them as being 'in love'.
Working on this painting I felt the tenderness between them, the love and caring my mom felt for my dad. The heartbreak, the emptiness my mom must have felt when her beloved died. Love letters we found under her pillow when cleaning out her apartment, burned they are resting with their ashes.
I did not know the stories even my parents were holding between each other. It was not my place to know. Everyone holds a story, kindness is what we can offer to cradle our stories with.
Time is slipping as do memories and our minds.
When I saw my mom at Christmas, I was shocked how hard she was breathing, how slow she was walking, not the woman I remember from the summer before, from the years before.
Time is slipping.
When she died, so many firsts...
The first time I saw her lying without breath
So many lasts...
touching her body for the last time, letting her physical presents go
leaving her apartment,
empty,
for the last time.
Grieving- noticing even the smallest act of kindness,
the heart is open
every little act of kindness made me cry.
