Reading my mother through her books
Our parents are an accumulation of stories. Go find them before it’s too late.
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All our parents are an accumulation of undiscovered things.
PHOTO ILLUSTRATION: PIXABAY
The painting is crumpled on the sides and the crayon-work is rough and smudged. On the old paper, the sun gleams, a flower blooms, birds fly and two figures run down a path towards a house. The artist is a child.
This painting is tucked between the pages of Michael Cunningham’s The Hours and it is from about 40 years ago, when my mother worked part-time at an adoption agency in Kolkata. Now 91, she holds the painting and travels backwards.
