The artist doesn’t need his mother to pose; the scene is imprinted, laid down as if already completed. He will paint her sitting in her easy-chair beside the glowing stove, frail hands resting on frayed leatherette, her hair a neat halo under the reading lamp. He will capture her faded but undeniable elegance, her own mother’s cameo brooch pinned to the breast of her favourite baby-blue cardigan. A folded newspaper on her side table, knitting needles like ram’s horns protruding from the wicker basket at her feet. He will paint her half-profile as she turns towards him in expectation, her mouth soft, her copper-green eyes lit with curiosity. He might include an impression of the framed photo on the mantle behind his mother’s head; three small faces forever smiling out at the world. As he considers if he will include the bell-curved mantle clock, he hears again its clockwork gears crank under his father’s meticulous weekly winding, and the artist remembers its unrelenting tick-tock that was the pulse of his childhood. His head becomes heavy, eyelids flutter, he is gathered into the heat of memory, it’s warmth, it’s love; he could sleep in its peace.
He won't paint the walking aid, standing like a mini-cage by his mother’s knees, or the medicines, sorted and child-proof on the mantle. He won't paint the stained bib she clutches with clawed fingers, or the high clasp on the kitchen door, placed just out of reach of her muscle memory. He won't paint her pained bewilderment.
And he can't paint his father at the table—how his frame has withered, his hair become unkempt, his once sparkling eyes become cloudy. He can’t paint the sharp elbows gouging polished pine, his head resting in his hands, grateful for any moment of respite.
Bríd McGinley writes short fiction and creative non-fiction. Winner of the 2022 Benedict Kiely Short Story Competition. Her work has appeared in The Bangor Literary Journal, Sonder Magazine, The Honest Ulsterman, The Bramley, FlashFlood, and Splonk among others. She lives by the sea in Co Donegal.
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