On the last day of your visit, the first since we moved into this house, I am reminded of my mother. I am even dressed like my mother, in loose cotton top and elastic waist bottoms. New short haircut. “I am my mother,” I remark out loud.
I sit on the bed with you, as you fold your clean clothes. “It reminds me of the times when I came home from college. My clothes would be going round and round, the dryer would be humming, making clinking noises every so often. The whole house felt safe and warm.”
I let the back of my head rest upon the pillow, as I stare with an intentionally soft gaze at the double images of the Mona Lisa (borrowed from the original and duplicated by Andy Warhol) for such a long time that I gradually become aware of how each image appears to be moving toward the center—as if painted on separate sliding screens—finally dissolving the illusion of duality and merging into their original state of oneness. I notice that I can move the images back and forth if I want to, almost as if I were ten again and asking the Ouija Board a question—only much later to recognize that I am the one who has the answer. Now, as I lie here in my seventy-year-old body, I silently observe that without losing sight of my own boundaries, I too must be coming together—that the images I so love—of ancient Goddesses and Christian Madonnas and generations of mothers and daughters—are now becoming one and being restored to their original state of oneness.
The summer after you were born, I dreamed of climbing to the top of a ladder and opening up the attic. “The house is bigger than I thought,” I wrote, extending the metaphor.
The house IS bigger. I know that now.
I am no longer trespassing. The territory I am entering belongs to none other than my soul.
Summer or Fall 2020
I wrote this soon after moving from the Bay Area to the Sierra Foothills just south of Yosemite. We had already evacuated once because of The Creek Fire. Still feeling a little displaced, I was able to locate myself in a territory that goes beyond space and time. Though my mother was not physically present, she was definitely there with us.
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This writing was so captivating, I did not want it to end.
An enjoyable read, Marilyn. Thank you for sharing!